Scenes from 221B Baker Street
by IveBeenWaitingForYouForever
Summary: A collection of little drabbles and things from life at 221B Baker Street. Almost constant Slash if you have slash goggles on, eventual slash in any case. Rated M mostly because I'm paranoid. All stories go in order of time but not all are connected.
1. The birds, the bees and Sherlock Holmes

John paused momentarily at the door to 221b Baker Street, took a firmer grip of the two shopping bags in his hands and took several deep breaths. This had become a ritual of sorts for him ever since he'd walked into the apartment to find Sherlock sitting cross-legged on the floor, sporting a lab coat, surrounded by an assortment of body parts and surgical instruments from the morgue, looking for all the world like a child with a new toy. Unfortunately, John had been so shocked that he'd dropped all of the shopping.

The carpet around the door still smelt faintly of the sickly mix of milk, egg and orange juice that had spilled out of the bags and he really didn't want to repeat the incident. Apart from the smell, it was hell to clean up.

Though this was only half the reason he'd started doing this. It was also the only one he'd given to Sherlock when the ever-observant detective had asked why there was too long a pause between him arriving at the door and coming inside. The other reason was that he needed the few deep breaths to steel himself against what he might find when he entered. Life with the world's only consulting detective was never boring, but it certainly did his nerves no good.

Though to Sherlock's credit, even though it had taken at least an hour of John shouting himself hoarse about hygiene and courtesy in relation to what things Sherlock should bring home, he hadn't done any similar experiments in the week since.

The texts he'd gotten earlier concerned him though; the first one had read simply "Bring home batteries. SH" and was closely followed by "Lots of batteries. SH"

John had felt for several days that he was pushing his luck in assuming the apartment would be body-part free for long, and when walked into the apartment he found that he was... well, he was half right.

He just barely managed to keep a grip on the bags. He just stood in the doorway, taking in the scene with his mouth hanging open.

Sherlock was once again, sitting cross-legged on the floor, sporting his lab coat (and a pair of magnifying goggles), but this time he was surrounded by what looked like the entire contents of a sex shop, and examining a large vibrator very closely. Suddenly the batteries had taken on a very unnerving new connotation.

"Is there a particular reason you're imitating this thing here" Sherlock gestured absently towards a half-inflated blow-up sex doll sitting (rather disturbingly) in John's chair "or have you taken up standing gormlessly in the doorway as some sort of hobby?"

"You... what... why... Sherlock...?" John couldn't quite manage to string a sentence together. He supposed being "married to the job" would inevitably lead to taking matters into your own hands, as it were, but for Sherlock to be so blatant and in his face about it (and to have stocked up quite so thoroughly) was something he couldn't quite get his head around.

"Yes?" For a man surrounded by the things he was, Sherlock seemed extremely bored and was affecting his usual disinterested tone.

"Umm... Look, I don't mean to pry or anything," John swallowed uncomfortably then went on "but is there a particular reason all of this is here? And how in the hell did you get it all home?"

"A woman who owns the shop these came from was poisoned and nobody can figure out how. Since the majority of poisoned shop-owners in these sorts of cases are killed with their own wares, I thought I'd investigate them before anything else." As he spoke he sliced into the specimen he was holding with a scalpel, making John visibly flinch. "Personally, since I'm supposed to be investigating the place, I'd have appreciated if DI Lestrade had informed me about what sort of shop it was but he would only tell me it was an "adult" shop and seemed to find withholding the information from me extremely comical. Thanks to him I had to take all of this home to research. The entire team were laughing at me by the time I left..."

Sherlock pouted as he said this, clearly angry about being the clueless one for once, and John couldn't quite contain the fit of laughter that was bubbling up in him. The image of Sherlock striding angrily away from Lestrade and his team with a box full of sex toys was enough to contend with but the pout sent him right over the edge. He managed to contain himself long enough to put the shopping bags down beside Sherlock but then he couldn't keep it in any longer.

He laughed until his sides hurt, his eyes were streaming and he had to lean against his chair for support. The stony glare Sherlock had been aiming in his direction the entire time did little to help matters either.

As the giggles subsided and he calmed down, he feared he might have gone a bit far. If looks could have killed...

"When you've quite finished John, would you mind being the one to finally tell me what these are for instead of making fun of me?"

"But... I mean..." He rubbed the back of his neck; clearly uncomfortable with the subject "You honestly don't know what these are for?"

Sherlock tapped the side of his head.

"Hard drive, remember?"

"But... Did nobody ever give you the..." He tried to find a way to avoid actually using the word 'sex' in front of Sherlock, "'...the 'Birds and Bees' talk?"

"What do insects and birds have to do with any of this?"

"Well... You know... the whole 'When two people love each other very much' thing, and all that?"

All he got from Sherlock was a blank stare.

"So... Insects, birds and... love? That's what these are for? How are they all connected?" There was genuine confusion and curiosity in his voice.

As it dawned on him that Sherlock wasn't actually playing some cruel joke on him and that he had no idea what he was talking about, he'd have given anything for the floor to have swallowed him up. He knew that otherwise he'd actually have to explain the entire concept of human sexuality to a man he had to share a flat with. He couldn't even leave him to his own devices to find out on the internet; he didn't want to imagine what the man might make of porn...

He took a deep breath and clenched his fists by his side, determined to get through this as quickly as possible.

"Well... Ok... Well, you know the biology end of it don't you? You have to, don't you? Not knowing about the solar system is bad enough but..."

Another blank stare.

"The biology end of what exactly?"

Sherlock seemed almost determined to make him actually say it.

"SEX! Sex, Sherlock, sex! Shagging! Fucking! Reproduction! You have to know enough about biology to know about sex. Please tell me you do." Desperation was starting to leak into his voice.

"What has any of this got to do with reproduction?" He seemed to have grabbed onto the only concept in the sentence he knew anything at all about.

"Oh thank God, you know how reproduction works then?"

"Yes. The male of the species inserts his-"

"Ok, ok, so you do know!" John hurriedly stopped him before he described the entire process "Well... that's what these are for. Except not for actually... reproducing..."

Sherlock who had seemed to get it for a moment there was confused once again. He'd clearly never spent this amount of time feeling ignorant on a subject before and it was starting to get on his nerves.

"Well how does that work? Why go through the process if the end result doesn't happen?"

"F-for pleasure Sherlock! Reproductive organs have all these nerve endings and... Sex isn't just for making babies, it's for people who want pleasure and companionship and for people in love! I mean have you never...? Not even yourself?"

"Myself? Surely by definition the process requires two people? And no, I have never. I never had interest in making a child and wasn't aware it could be done recreationally up until now."

Embarrassed as he was, John finally felt like they were getting somewhere, he ran his hands through his hair.

"Well that's where these things come in... If someone wants to..." He took another deep breath "...pleasure themselves, they can use their hands or they can use stuff like this" He gestured around the room really wishing he was somewhere else and hoping with all his might that he wasn't going to have to explain masturbation to Sherlock on top of everything else.

Thankfully Sherlock seemed to have copped on.

"Oh, so when they can't find a partner to stimulate their nerve endings they can use these to do it themselves?"

"Basically, yes, I suppose..."

"But how do they work? A lot of them seem to require batteries but from what I can see they're mostly large, phallic lumps of latex and rubber."

With a sigh, John handed him the batteries, determined that he wasn't explaining anything else if he could avoid it. He was far too tired. Sherlock took them and slotted them into the nearest specimen he had to hand.

As he was closing the door to the battery compartment his hand brushed over the on/off switch and the sudden vibration surprised him so much he dropped it straight into his lap. Suddenly his eyes widened, he sat up completely straight and most of what John had been talking about seemed to click into place for him. He had hurriedly removed the offending article, turned it off and stalked off into the kitchen before John had a chance to register what had happened. When his brain did catch up with what his eyes had seen though, he couldn't quite believe it. Could it possibly be that Sherlock was "married to his work" because he'd just never cared to look into any of the alternatives?

The awkward way Sherlock was walking for the next few minutes pretty much confirmed his suspicions.

It was with an amused air that he put away the groceries and cooked dinner while Sherlock finished assessing the sex toys' potentials as weapons and packed them back into the box. The sight of an overflowing, open-lidded box of the things combining with the visual of Sherlock strolling down the street holding it prompted a fresh round of giggles from him but he managed to smother it before the stony glare returned.

Over dinner something clicked in Sherlock's brain and he actually did solve the case (predictably, it wasn't the sex toys that had done it) but after that his mind seemed elsewhere. As far as John could tell, Sherlock seemed to be reassessing his hard drive partitions and trying to find room for some new knowledge.


	2. Sleep

They'd been working on this case for one day short of a week. Sherlock had barely eaten or slept since they'd started on it. Apparently he thought digesting slowed him down and sleeping was just wasting time that could be spent thinking.

John was really starting to worry about him. He was thin and mildly sleep deprived at the best of times but when he threw himself into a case he seemed to completely disregard his own health. John had managed to get him to eat at least one thing every day, and tried to sneak as much nutrition into it as he could (the kitchen was littered with vitamin supplements, iron tablets, etc.), but he had only managed this through nagging Sherlock to the point where the man was eating purely to get some peace and quiet.

Getting him to sleep involved many similar problems, but was even worse. You could force someone to eat and you could watch them to make sure they actually ate the food, but sleeping was impossible to force on someone._ Especially _someone as stubborn as Sherlock. He had tried a different method pretty much every day and Sherlock had foiled him nearly every single time. It was like living with a very clever child.

He hadn't noticed any change the morning after the first or second days. It wasn't unusual for Sherlock to skip a night's sleep and he wasn't the man's mother, he wasn't keeping track of his sleeping patterns. He did notice him seeming less responsive and drinking more coffee but it didn't register too strongly.

After coming down the fourth morning though, he had noted that Sherlock was exactly where he'd left him 8 hours ago and was staring at the same spot on the wall. Only he was still breathing, he looked like he'd died during the night. There were dark circles under his eyes, his face had a sunken look about it and John wasn't entirely sure if he looked capable of getting out of the chair anymore. After dragging it out of Sherlock that he hadn't slept for the last three nights, he'd gotten him a very sugary cup of tea, told Ms Hudson to keep an eye on him while he was at work and left for his job vowing that he was getting Sherlock to sleep tonight.

This proved a harder job than he'd anticipated. He'd come home that evening with a stack of articles he'd compiled during the day about how eating and sleeping properly improved concentration and would help Sherlock to think straight. He knew Sherlock wouldn't listen to reason without some considerable evidence to back it up. What he hadn't counted on was him disregarding all of them as "unproven pseudo-science", dumping them unceremoniously into the bin and chugging down what (judging by the cups littering every surface in the room) must be his twentieth cup of coffee of the day.

When he went to get breakfast the next morning he'd found Sherlock asleep on the couch with his laptop balanced on his chest, still running. The charger wasn't plugged in and the laptop wasn't even on low battery yet so he couldn't have been asleep more than an hour or so. With a sigh, John saved Sherlock's work, shut down the computer and draped a blanket over him. He didn't look in any way comfortable but at least he was sleeping.

He spent the next half hour or so tip-toeing around the apartment trying not to wake him. He was doing fairly well until he pressed the door release button on the microwave and the thing exploded on him. Sherlock skidded into the room looking bewildered and concerned but as soon as he'd seen that John was fine (apart from the front of his hair being mildly singed) he started shouting at him. Apparently he'd ruined the experiment Sherlock had had in the microwave. John could have honestly cared less about the experiment and his hair but he wished Sherlock hadn't woken up. His face hadn't lost any of that drawn, sunken look it had acquired over the last few days. He was much paler than usual too, and his movements seemed like they were in slow motion.

"I suppose it's no use telling you to get some sleep while I'm out, is it?"

"None whatsoever, John." A tired smile tugged at the corners or Sherlock's mouth as the other man sighed.

John would have argued the point further but he had work to get to and plans to make. He said goodbye to Sherlock and headed out.

When he returned home it became apparent that Sherlock was so embarrassed at having succumbed to sleep that he was doubling his efforts to stay awake until the case was solved. Everywhere John looked when he came home was full of cups and coffee stains.

As he attempted to clean up the kitchen somewhat, he tried to refine the various plans he had in his head to get Sherlock to bed. So far the best thing he could come up with was locking him in his room until he was forced to get some sleep. He figured the worst case scenario was that he'd end up actually tying him to the bed. Surely Sherlock was tired enough that if he was forced to lie still on a comfortable bed he'd just sleep. Though he was surprisingly resourceful when backed into a corner and it was with a sense of dread John set about trying to enact his plan.

He had lured Sherlock in under the guise of looking at a blown fuse (he must have been really tired to have fallen for that). He'd tackled Sherlock onto the bed and what followed was a surprising show of strength from such a thin and sleep deprived man and a struggle which John would later think back on as being filled with sexual tension. Eventually though, mostly due to his military training, he'd managed to pin Sherlock to the bed, tie his hands to the bed posts and lock him in. He was right about Sherlock's resourcefulness when trapped though, and sure enough, ten minutes later the door swung open to reveal a very un-amused Sherlock holding a bundle of rope.

"Do you want to tell me what that was about, John?"

And suddenly, he had had enough. He just exploded.

"Because you're slowly killing yourself, you fucking lunatic! Do you have any idea how worried about you I've been the past few days? Or how frustrating it is to see you doing this to yourself? Or how unbelievably stupid and childish and stubborn you're being about it?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond but John wasn't about to be stopped.

"You do realise you're eventually going to end up in hospital, don't you? You're going to get diagnosed with all these sleeping and eating disorders when the truth is you're just a stubborn bastard. And you're going to antagonise the doctors so much that they'll deem you a danger to yourself and others and cart you off to some mental institution! Do you really want that Sherlock? Because I know I don't. The worst thing about it is that you're too tired to think straight but you won't sleep until you finish the case, and you won't be able to finish the case because you can't think straight. It's literally not going to end until you collapse."

Sherlock did look slightly abashed, but being his usual stubborn self he simply responded with

"Well, that would be your opinion on it... But you are right; I'll go to sleep when the case is finished. I'd appreciate if you didn't distract me by trying to tie me up in the mean time."

John clenched and unclenched his fists, trying desperately not to hit the other man, when suddenly an idea occurred to him. And it was _so_ _simple_.

"I'll call Mycroft."

If anyone could get Sherlock to do something it was Mycroft Holmes. He had the entire government and many years of experience dealing with his little brother on his side and he was just as crafty as Sherlock.

"Really...? You're telling on me...?" Sherlock had obviously meant his tone to be snide and condescending but there was a fearful edge to it that let John know he'd hit his mark.

Actually contacting Mycroft however was a bit more of a challenge than he'd originally thought. He seemed to have gotten to the point in his illustrious career where his very existence was denied by the government, so looking him up in the phonebook was a definite no. Any time he'd talked to Mycroft the other man had found him. He had no idea where to start. He wasn't going to be getting the answer out of Sherlock after all.

After about an hour's failed searching he got fed up and decided to head to bed. He was too angry with Sherlock to say a proper goodnight to him.

"You're sleeping tomorrow whether you like it or not. I'll ask Lestrade for a pair of handcuffs, he'd be more than happy to help. I'd like to see you try and get out of those."

The corners of Sherlock's mouth tugged up slightly and his voice was surprisingly warm when he replied.

"It's a date, John. I look forward to it."

Overnight he had disregarded the idea of the handcuffs. He suspected Sherlock would make short work of them and they'd end up hurting his wrists fairly badly, which John didn't want on his conscience. He had been serious about getting him to sleep that night though.

_Never start a battle of wits with a doctor, Sherlock. _He thought to himself with a grim sort of satisfaction. There were definitely advantages to having a prescription pad handy.

He came home that evening trying to act as normal as he possibly could. Despite the fact that he was doing it for Sherlock's own good, the thought of drugging his flat-mate didn't entirely sit well with his ethics and if he acted too guilty Sherlock was bound to notice, sleep-deprived or not.

At around 10pm when John had changed into his pyjamas (Sherlock had been too tired to wear anything but his pyjamas for the last three days so he didn't have to worry about that) and made twin cups of tea for him and Sherlock, as was his routine by now, he checked over his shoulder to see if he was in Sherlock's line of sight. After triple checking that the detective was nowhere in sight he tipped one of the small vials of liquid he'd brought home into Sherlock's cup and gave it a thorough stir.

He schooled his face carefully into a neutral expression and brought the tea in, making sure to keep track of the drugged cup. He handed it to Sherlock with a mounting sense of guilt gnawing at his stomach. This only increased when Sherlock thanked him with a warm smile.

"Do turn off the T.V. won't you John? The noise is giving me a headache."

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak normally, walked perhaps a little too stiffly over to the T.V. and pulled the plug out. He returned to the table and noted that Sherlock had started drinking the tea without question.

_Oh, what have I done? He's never going to trust me to make him food again. He's going to starve to death..._

He took a steadying gulp of his own tea, after all that's what years of being English had ingrained in him (when in doubt, have tea), and was suddenly glad Sherlock wasn't the type of person who enjoyed talking over tea. He sat there in the companionable silence, stiff as a board and feeling increasingly awkward until Sherlock had taken his last mouthful. He drained his own cup and started keeping a close eye on his flatmate.

_Ok, got to time it right, there's no way I'll be able to carry him to bed without injuring us both, he's at least a foot taller than me. Need to watch for the signs and somehow get him over there before he stops being able to walk properly._

The longer he looked at Sherlock waiting for a sign of the drug taking effect, the more confused he became when it continued not to happen. He was about to forego the timing and concentrate on actually getting him into his room when Sherlock smiled at him.

"You know John, over the years a lot of people have gotten tired of trying to persuade me to do things and slipped something into my drink to make me do them anyway. You may be the first to do it for what you thought was my own good, but exactly like all the others you didn't succeed."

"You- How did you..?"

"Well firstly you're a terrible actor. You've been jumpy and walking stiffly since you came in. Secondly your hands are shaking again and thirdly you left the other vial of the stuff in your coat pocket. Nice try though."

"B-but you... you drank... you... the tea!"

Now that he actually tried to move and speak John noticed his vision was getting fuzzy around the edges, he felt light-headed and he didn't feel entirely connected to his limbs. It suddenly dawned on him what had happened.

"You _bastard_! You switched the cups!"

"Well I could hardly drink it, could I?"

He would have been angrier at Sherlock but he knew deep down it was probably silly to have tried to pull one over on him.

"Fine, stay awake until I have to call you an ambulance. I'm going to go to bed while I'm still able to walk."

With that he got up out of his chair, managed about two and a half steps towards his room and fell pretty much flat on his face on the carpet. It really ruined the dramatic exit he was going for. He was contemplating just lying there, he didn't have much choice in the matter after all, but suddenly he felt a surprisingly strong pair of arms slipping under him and suddenly he was staring at the ceiling. It took a second for his brain to catch up with what had happened but when it finally hit him he looked up to his right and sure enough he was looking up into Sherlock's half concerned, half amused face.

Under normal circumstances he might have been embarrassed being carried bridal style, but he suddenly felt very safe. He leaned his head into Sherlock's chest, breathing in his smell, which had become familiar to him without him realising it, and it calmed him. It was a wonderful mix of books, coffee, nicotine and something that was completely Sherlock. Maybe it was the new angle he was seeing the other man from, or some side effect of the drug, but he suddenly noticed how warm and kind Sherlock's eyes were as they looked at him. Though he wouldn't admit it to himself until later, he also noticed how oddly beautiful the man was.

Neither of them could put their finger on it but something passed between them in that moment while Sherlock was holding him. Somehow the dynamic of the relationship shifted slightly and something that had been growing between them for a long time crystallised.

Sherlock carried him into his own room, placed him gently on his bed and, to John's surprise, lay down beside him.

"I'm unfamiliar with the drug you used, how long will it be before you're asleep?"

"Ten, fifteen minutes I think. Should have picked a better one... Only one with a subtle enough taste..."

"I'll stay with you until then."

If anyone else had said it he would have told them to get the hell out of his room and to stop feeling sorry for him, but Sherlock didn't seem to say it out of pity. There was genuine affection in his voice. He seemed to want to stay for himself as well as to keep John company.

Something suddenly dawned on him.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"I've been at work all day and sleeping all night. You only get company for about three hours a day. Have you not gotten lonely being constantly awake for the last week?"

There was a definite pause before an answer came, and he doubted he'd have even got one under normal circumstances, but a wall seemed to have come down between them.

"...Yes."

With great effort, John got his limbs to cooperate and he rolled onto his side to face Sherlock.

"I'm sorry I'm not around more... I didn't think how lonely this flat must be all day..."

"It didn't use to bother me, you know. Before you. In fact I preferred it. Then suddenly you came along and I find myself missing you when you're gone. Like some pathetic house-pet waiting for its master to come home."

There was a bitterness there that John couldn't help but feel a bit stung by, but he was incredibly touched that Sherlock felt this way about him.

"You're not pathetic Sherlock. You couldn't be. Stubborn and infuriating, but never pathetic. And I miss you when I'm out too. Especially this week, I've spent all day, every day, worrying about you. I was so distracted by it; I spent all of yesterday wearing Sarah's lab coat without noticing. It has pink flowers embroidered on the pocket and it's at least a size too small for me."

Sherlock snorted out a small laugh, an uncharacteristic move for him, and John smiled affectionately in response. His bed was quite small and their faces were inches away from each other. He got a sudden urge to close the gap and kiss Sherlock, but something held him back. There was a sudden openness that had suddenly sprung up between them and he didn't want to shatter it. Also he wasn't quite ready to accept feeling that way about another man yet, and was trying to pretend to himself it was just a product of being this close.

Something had definitely changed between them though, and hopefully it seemed like it was for the better. He drifted off to sleep staring into Sherlock's eyes, with Sherlock staring right back. Even better, when he woke up in the morning, Sherlock was still lying beside him, sleeping deeply with a serene smile on his face.


	3. Dreams

Sherlock tossed and turned in his sleep, his usual nightmare troubling him.

_The lights playing on the surface of the water gave the entire place an eerie feeling, the oppressive silence not helping matters either. He glanced around, suddenly wishing for somebody else to be there and break the atmosphere, even if it was a criminal mastermind and a murderer. Putting on his best show of bravado, he called out:_

"_Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present. That's what it's all been for, hasn't it? All your little puzzles, making me dance... All to distract me from this."_

_He heard a door click behind him and turned, expecting to look into the face of a cold, calculating killer. His heart froze as instead he saw John._

"_Evening," he said quite calmly "this is a turn-up, isn't it Sherlock?"_

"_John...?" His voice not much more than a whisper, filled with disbelief "What the hell-"_

"_Bet you never saw this coming" He opened the jacket revealing the horrid device inside, and a red dot danced on his chest._

That was when the dream started to both divert from and mix with reality. No matter how well he knew that things had gone differently, he couldn't stop it from playing out this way in his dreams every night. Or stop himself waking up panicked and in a cold sweat. No matter how many times it happened, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't delete this dream or that night from his hard drive. He also couldn't calm himself down until he had gone to check that John was still there, still safe and sound.

_Moriarty's cruel voice sounded from an unidentifiable location, somehow more sinister for having no apparent source._

"_All your fault you know, Sherlock. Had to know if you took a pet, he'd only get hurt in the end. How selfish of you"_

_He materialised out of thin air beside John and patted him on the head, grinning insanely. Sherlock was forcibly reminded of the Cheshire cat._

"_You can talk if you want now Johnny-boy. I wouldn't move much though, explosives can be soooo temperamental..."_

"_Sherlock..." His voice was small, pained and pleading "I'm sorry. He jumped me on my way to Sarah's, I couldn't do anything..."_

"_Don't be sorry, of course you couldn't... Are you alright?" He unsuccessfully tried to keep the worry out of his voice_

_He got a tight nod in return, which told him John was far from alright._

"_Sherlock... It's not the best time, or the best circumstances..." He started nervously "But I just wanted to tell you, in case we don't get out of here-" _

"_Don't say that. I'm getting you out of here if it kills me." Sherlock made the vow without thinking, but he meant it with all his heart._

_He suddenly wished he hadn't said it, as a look of steely determination came over John's face. Moriarty had been strolling nonchalantly forward all the while and was now standing between the two. Before Sherlock could stop him, John had rushed forward, grabbed Moriarty from behind and growled into his ear:_

"_Your snipers will have to hit you to get to me. We'll both go up." He swallowed hard and tightened his grip "Sherlock, run!"_

"_John, no, don't do this, he'll-"_

_Moriarty's grin had never once faltered, it had gotten wider if anything._

"_Wrong again, Johnny-boy. You'd think Sherlock would have taught you to deduce a thing or two..." the grin suddenly turned to a vindictive sneer "Shame that, it might have saved you in the end."_

_Sherlock knew what was coming, but he couldn't stop it._

_One moment John had a death-grip on Moriarty and the next his arms were closing around thin air. He and Sherlock exchanged panicked glances; both knew what was coming next as the dot steadied itself in the dead centre of his chest._

"_NO! Don't do this. Please, just please don't. I'll do anything you want, just don't do this. Not him. Please not him!" Sherlock pleaded desperately to thin air, his eyes swivelling around the room, trying to find where to direct his words._

"_Sorry," the voice didn't sound remotely apologetic "but he's forced my hand."_

"_I'm sorry..." John's eyes were huge and frightened "Sherlock, I-"_

_He was cut off abruptly by a bang that cut straight through Sherlock's heart. John's frightened eyes were suddenly deadened, and a red stain was blossoming on his shirt. _

"_NO!"_

_Rooted to the spot with shock, Sherlock watched John fall towards the floor. A second shot rang out and the entire world seemed to explode around him. He was propelled into the pool, but as soon as he fell beneath the surface of the water he was floating in black nothingness._

_This time the mocking voice came from all around him._

"_I know your weakness."_

"_Stop it."_

"_I can stop John Watson."_

"_Stop it!"_

_Stop his heart."_

"_I said stop it!"_

"_I can burn the heart out of you, and you... Well, you won't be able to do a thing to stop me, will you?"_

"No, no... Stop it... No..." Sherlock mumbled in his sleep, his brow furrowed and his legs tangling in the sheets as he thrashed about.

"_I took him from you once. I take him from you every single night."_

_He felt Moriarty's evil lips, barely an inch from his ear as he whispered his final statement_

"_And I can take him again. You can't protect him every minute of every day. I'm not gone. One day I'll come for him and there will be nothing you can do about it. You brought him into this dangerous life of yours, enticed him in. He was doomed from the minute he met you. He's going to die Sherlock. I'm going to kill him, and it's ALL. YOUR. FAULT."_

"No... No... Not him... Kill me... Please... Just leave him alone..." He was getting increasingly agitated, his reaction in the dream spilling out into his conscious mind.

"Sherlock! Wake up!" A hand shaking his shoulder startled him awake.

"John!" He sprung into a sitting position, his hand clutching his chest, panting heavily and unsure what was happening for a split second.

"Sherlock, Sherlock it's alright, it was just a dream. Calm down. It's ok." He felt the hand on his shoulder moving up and down, in an attempt to soothe him. Looking up he saw its owner staring down at him with concern.

The fog lifted from his mind and what had happened clicked into place. He was intensely glad to feel the steady warmth of John's hand on his shoulder, but he couldn't help but be embarrassed. The great Sherlock Holmes being regressed to a frightened child by a nightmare was bad enough, somebody witnessing it was unthinkable. Worse still, he knew had most likely been talking in his sleep.

"...How much of that did you hear?"

John's other hand went instantly to the back of his neck; a gesture of nervousness and discomfort. He'd certainly heard enough then.

"Nothing... umm... much." He looked down, not meeting Sherlock's gaze "You were saying 'no' a lot and... you said 'kill me, leave him alone'"

"Ah... I see..." He figured he might as well bite the bullet. There was an elephant in the room that needed addressing, and he didn't want to go back to being alone or asleep at this point.

But John beat him to it.

"It was about that night in the pool, wasn't it?"

"Well deduced, Doctor Watson." He actually felt a wry smile twitching up the corners of his lips as he shifted over to make room on the bed.

John thanked him and sat down.

They'd never really discussed that night in the swimming pool, both preferring to put it as many miles behind them as was humanly possible, but neither of them could deny the fact that they'd both been perfectly prepared to lay down their lives for one another.

"I never did thank you, you know, properly... For... For what you offered to do..." Evidently John's habits were rubbing off on him, since he found his hand going to the back of his neck as he talked.

"Oh," John actually sounded quite surprised "Well... I mean, it wasn't anything... You'd have... I mean, I couldn't..."

He sighed and started again.

"What are friends for, right?" He smiled back at Sherlock, who was definitely not in the smiling mood anymore, instead biting his bottom lip with his eyes cast downwards.

"You shouldn't have, you know... I'm incredibly grateful, but you really shouldn't have. You'll... You'll get yourself killed that way." The image of John's eyes gone suddenly lifeless and the spreading red stain came unbidden to his mind and he winced.

"Of course I should have. _You_ should have run while you had the chance. Even before the snipers focused on you... You hadn't made so much as a move."

Then Sherlock's guilt and self-pity turned to anger.

"There was no bloody way I was leaving you there, even if I could have. He'd have..." He winced again "He'd have killed you on the spot."

John continued not to meet his gaze, studiously examining Sherlock's bedspread.

"I thought you didn't think there was much to the whole caring lark."

A short but nonetheless uncomfortable silence stretched out before a reply came.

"...So did I."

He looked up to find Sherlock's eyes boring into him and the question tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop it.

"Then why care about me? I'm nothing special..."

Sherlock's gaze never left him as he simply stated:

"You're wrong."

Being completely willing to sacrifice his life for someone else may not have been the biggest thing in the world for John – he had been a soldier, it had been part and parcel of the job for a few years – but for Sherlock it had been something completely unheard of. He was a high-functioning sociopath after all; self-diagnosed of course, but in his mind all the symptoms were there. For one thing, emotions confounded him. If he was being completely honest with himself, he'd have admitted that he had plenty of emotions, but suppressed them because he couldn't deal with or understand them properly. If there was one thing Sherlock Holmes didn't like it was not being able to understand something. He always used the fact that he had a lot of the other sociopathic traits to explain away his emotions. He lied easily, he couldn't sustain any sort of human relationship, he couldn't relate to normal people, he put himself before everyone else, he rarely felt guilty for anything...

He'd spent hours on the internet trying to explain his weirdness away with a diagnosis, and when he found one, he'd damn well stuck to it. High-functioning was right, but it took John to show him that while he was a lot of things, a sociopath wasn't one of them.

"But... I'm not very smart, especially compared to you, or particularly useful. I slow you down. When we're out chasing criminals you're always miles ahead of me. I mean you said it yourself, you think better when you think aloud, and I just attract less attention than your skull. You could just as easily get anyone to do what I do, I'm not special."

Sherlock was suddenly furious.

"The hell you aren't special John Watson. You're probably the only human being on earth who'd put up with me for this long. Or who'd go to so much effort to make sure I don't kill myself. I've changed since you came along too, you know. You came into my life and you changed me. You made me feel things. I tell you it takes one hell of a person to do all that."

His tone and his expression both softened.

"At first I didn't notice it, and then it was too late. Suddenly 'the whole caring lark' seemed to have a lot of merit to it. I hadn't even realised you'd started to make me care until you went and got a bomb strapped to your chest. You scared me half to death that night, you know."

His tone was conveying everything he seemed to be having trouble putting into words; the sociopath assumption had been thrown out the window the second John stepped into that swimming pool. He'd been hit with too many strong emotions to hang onto the delusion any longer. First there was the shock, then the overwhelming sense of betrayal. When the jacket had opened revealing the bomb, for the shortest moment there had been nothing but intense relief. Relief that this was still _his_ John, that all the hours they'd spent together had been real and that the only person who seemed able to connect with and put up with him hadn't been a lie. Then he was hit with guilt. How could he have suspected John of anything so horrible? How could he have left him alone to be kidnapped and put in this situation? How could he have possibly felt relief that there was a bomb strapped to his chest? Then his brain caught up with him and he realised; _the bomb. _

It had been as if all the heat had gone out of the room and somebody had taken a strangle-hold on his heart. His John was standing there, covered in too many explosives to have a chance of surviving if they went off and with that hateful red dot hovering on his chest. He'd barely kept his composure, searching wildly around for something, _anything_ that could help get him and John out of there, when that horrible, high-pitched, mocking voice had rang out around the swimming pool. He remembered the sudden blind panic he'd flown into when that madman had left; how he hadn't been able to stop himself tearing the coat off and flinging it as far away as he could manage, or how he hadn't been able to breathe properly until John had said he was ok.

Then the voice that now haunted his dreams came back, along with that malevolent red dot, and he knew without a doubt that neither of them was going to make it out alive without some small miracle. He shared a last look with John, then with his hands shaking slightly, aimed the gun, determined that if they were going, at least Moriarty was going with them.

"You gave me quite a scare yourself. I was sure we were both going to get ourselves killed that night."

"The one time in my life I've ever been happy to see Mycroft..."

Thankfully that moment, as Sherlock was aiming the gun, had been the moment Mycroft chose to appear. Sherlock had been too grateful for the unexpected rescue to even send any snarky comments in his brother's direction. Moriarty had slipped away in the sudden confusion but Sherlock couldn't find it in him to care until much later when the shock had worn off; John was safe and that was all he cared about for the moment. As they'd huddled in their shock blankets, he couldn't take his eyes off John, still _his_ John, for a single second. He kept making excuses to touch him and make sure he was still there and all in one piece. It was after that he'd started noticing that he missed the other man when he was at work. It was also when he'd started checking he was still safe and sound before he went to bed at night and again after he woke up from the nightmares, when he'd started memorising every single detail of him... He hated himself for it, and knew for John's own sake he should be telling him to run fast and run far from 221b Baker Street and Sherlock Holmes.

Clenching his fists, he forced the words out before he could change his mind.

"You should get away from me you know."

He glanced up in time to see the hurt forming in John's eyes.

"And why's that then?" The question was short, sharp and tinged with bitterness.

"Surely it's obvious."

To Sherlock it was the most obvious thing in the world, since he'd been constantly told it in his dreams ever since that night in the pool. He still didn't have the hang of emotions and his tone had come out much more condescending than it should have.

Hurt further, John lashed out.

"Not to me Sherlock. Oh, maybe to the great Sherlock Holmes everything is obvious, but not to us mere mortals. Please explain to me if you would deign to, why you would tell me you care about me and then tell me you don't want me here?"

Sherlock, whose eyes were suddenly wide and reminiscent of a frightened rabbit, replied in a small voice:

"Because you aren't safe here John..."

This was the last response he had expected and was somewhat taken aback.

"I'm not safe? You got me into this in the first place by telling me it was dangerous. You know enough about me to know I can take care of myself."

This was true. He'd been interested in John from the second he clapped eyes on him. The thing was, it was originally as a fun project, a toy soldier to play with, a living substitute for his skull and someone to help with the rent. He'd taken him on a trial run to see if he was worth his time and had the nerves necessary to survive living in 221b Baker Street. He was very pleased with himself when it turned out he'd picked out someone both useful and entertaining. By the end of the case John had endearingly titled 'A Study in Pink', he was not only fairly impressed (and by his standards, this was high praise) with John, he'd actually grown rather fond of him. When he thought back, he knew he should have realised then and there that John was going to be both his making and his undoing. Sherlock Holmes rarely became fond of anyone, and if he did it happened over weeks, months, years... But somehow within a day or so of meeting him, John had managed to get beneath his shell and set himself up as a permanent fixture. Sherlock had never had a partner in his work before, but he found himself never wanting to do a case without John again.

"I know you can take care of yourself; you tend to be the one taking care of me too most of the time. But nobody is safe from Moriarty once he's set his sights on them. He's a genius who seems to be a true psychopath; that's a really bad combination. As long as he knows you're my weakness, he's going to try to hurt me by hurting you. My life is too dangerous. You're going to get killed if you stay with me."

John just sat there for a long while. This was unlike anything he'd ever seen come from Sherlock and he didn't know how to take it. He'd fairly suspected that Sherlock's hard shell and self-proclaimed sociopathy were just a way of protecting himself from being vulnerable, but suddenly he was openly admitting his feelings and showing actual concern for John's wellbeing. It was true, he had been noticing a pattern of small shows of caring and concern from his flatmate ever since that night at the pool – far less body parts in the apartment, stealthy touches and glances, carrying him to bed and sleeping beside him the other night – but he'd been nearly passing them off as imagination and wishful thinking. Now there could be no doubt; Sherlock cared about him. Even if he only seemed able to show it when he was tired, his defences were down and they were alone together, it was definitely a start.

"I don't know what to say, Sherlock. I'm really touched that you care so much about me. But don't forget I care about you too, and there's not a chance I'm leaving you to deal with that psycho on your own. Plus you'd neglect yourself to death by the end of the week without me forcing food down your throat and reminding you to sleep. I honestly don't know how you survived before I came along; it has to have been pure luck and willpower."

He was rewarded with a warm chuckle from Sherlock and was pleased to see a weight lifting from his shoulders. He felt the urge to put his arm around them to comfort his friend, but restrained himself. Feelings might be one thing, but he was sure Sherlock still had too many boundaries for that to be taken well. Instead he just lightly patted the shoulder closest to him.

"We'll get him before he gets the chance to give us too much trouble. In fact we could have him by this time next week if you'd play nice with Mycroft and work together."

Even without the other man saying anything, he could feel disdain coming off Sherlock in waves.

"I know the two of you as a team would be a hard concept but it'd get the job done."

Instead of the sardonic retort he was expecting, Sherlock seemed to find the idea pretty funny.

"The world would probably be on its knees by lunchtime if I helped Mycroft with his work and all the criminals in London would probably be behind bars by tea-time tomorrow if he helped with mine. We've never been able to agree long enough to find out though."

Imagining the brothers Holmes as a team was actually fairly frightening when John had a proper think about it but he was distracted from wandering too far down that train of thought.

"Besides," Sherlock said primly "I only need one person on my team, and that's my faithful blogger."

"Oh really? You couldn't get the cases solved without me?" He didn't bother hiding the sarcasm.

"Well... not exactly," Sherlock smirked "but I wouldn't have half as much fun doing it and I'd be injured twice as often. The skull never once managed to come to my rescue or make me giggle at a crime scene."

They both giggled together again, the same way they did after 'A Study in Pink' and Sherlock couldn't help yawning widely. He'd been getting even less sleep than usual due to the nightmares and it was beginning to take its toll. Staying awake for days at a time was one thing; he'd grown a high enough tolerance for that, but the stress and the interrupted sleep seemed to have a far worse effect on him than no sleep.

He didn't know whether it was due to sheer exhaustion or whether it was the fact that he had fallen asleep staring at John, but that night they'd shared a bed he had slept better than he had in weeks; completely nightmare free. He lay down, suddenly spent, and was hoping if he got to sleep before John left that he'd be able to have a repeat performance. He really needed the rest at this point.

John, who'd been drifting off into his own thoughts and feeling in need of going back to sleep himself, came back to reality to see that Sherlock had flopped down exhausted on the bed. He had a moment's indecision and a few vaguely worrying "This is the second time in less than a week I'll have slept in the same bed as Sherlock. People already think we're dating..." thoughts but they quickly passed. In the end he decided he was too tired to care, and if people were going to have beds that looked this inviting, they should expect guests in said bed from time to time. He lay down next to Sherlock and pulled the blankets over them. When he looked back, Sherlock's dark eyes were staring at him, half-open. They didn't seem to need any sort of explanation, in fact they almost looked grateful, but he felt the need to provide one anyway, however weak.

"My bed's all the way in there... and yours is so comfy..."

Sherlock silenced him by wrapping his arm around him and snuggling in closer. He would have objected but he was still too tired to care about much and he had to admit he was enjoying the closeness.

"Go to sleep John."

"Good night to you too Sherlock."


	4. Leaving On A JetPlane

When Lestrade said the killer had moved up to Cardiff, he knew there'd be trouble. Despite John's protests that consulting detectives don't have jurisdictions, Sherlock still insisted that anywhere out of range of a walk and a reasonably priced taxi was outside of his. He'd seen him turn down dozens of high-paying cases on the basis that he'd have to fly to get to them and it was getting infuriating. Mrs Hudson was an understanding woman but they still needed to pay the rent and get food in the house. Not to mention the utility bills, nicotine patches and Sherlock's habit of destroying at least one microwave per week.

As predicted, when he had mentioned them getting a plane up to Cardiff with Lestrade the next day to follow up the case, Sherlock refused almost immediately and with what John thought was more force than necessary. This was where he had decided to put his foot down. Turning down bank robberies, jewel heists and the like was one thing, but turning down a serial killer was another. He was determined that people weren't going to get killed because the great Sherlock Holmes wouldn't spend two hours on a plane.

He'd said as much to Sherlock, but despite a good few hours of arguing on and off, he still hadn't managed to convince him, or even get a proper reaction from him. The arguing had mainly been John saying the same few points, getting more and more frustrated each time, while Sherlock sat quite indifferently, continuing to say no.

Eventually both of them had tired of this and in an uncharacteristic move, Sherlock went to the kitchen at about ten o' clock, made his own tea and stalked off to bed with it. John had turned in himself shortly afterward. He'd have to be up pretty damn early since they'd need to be at the airport for 8 the next morning to be sure of catching the plane. Not to mention that he had no idea how long it would take to drag Sherlock out of bed.

In the morning he did as much preparation as he possibly could, and then decided to attempt waking his room-mate. He stood leaning against Sherlock's door-frame, watching him sleeping peacefully, contemplating the task he had ahead of him. It had already been proven to John that it was nearly impossible to get Sherlock to do something he didn't want to unless he had almost no other choice, but he was cautiously optimistic about this one. Sherlock's obsession with finishing a case would be on his side, and so would the fact that – worst case scenario – Lestrade could flash his badge, slap Sherlock in a pair of handcuffs and say that he was transporting a prisoner. The detective was good at talking his way out of a situation but nobody was that good.

But that did involve getting him to the airport first.

He sighed and took one last look at Sherlock's sleeping form. He was genuinely asleep, his face completely relaxed, one arm draped over the covers and another resting above his head on the pillow. It made John smile to see him like that for once and to know he was getting some proper rest. He was loath to wake him, given that he looked incredibly peaceful and several years younger, but he knew it had to be done, and the sooner the better.

_Well, this is ironic; normally I'm doing my level best to get Sherlock into bed-_

He mentally shook himself and started backpedalling in his own head.

_Get Sherlock to sleep. TO SLEEP, not into bed._

He resolutely ignored the part of his brain that was screaming things like "denial!" and "Freudian slip!" at him and decided now was as good a time as any to start the day's ordeal off. He tip-toed over to the bed, adjusted Sherlock's clock and went back to the door. He plastered a smile on his face and drew in a deep breath.

"Sherrrrrlock! Time to wake uuup." He called over in a cheery, sing-song voice as he sauntered over to the bed. He was determined that he was taking the opportunity to pay Sherlock back for all the times he'd been woken at unspeakable hours of the morning and night by explosions, gunshots and Sherlock telling him to get dressed to help with a case.

Sherlock didn't open his eyes, but John knew he'd woken him. His usual tension had entered his body and while his breathing was still regular, it had become shallower. Definitely pretending to be asleep.

"I am a Doctor you know. It's kind of insulting that you think you can fool me like that."

Still no movement.

"C'mon, I've packed both our bags and got everything ready. All you have to do is get dressed and get in the taxi when it comes."

Again nothing. He'd promised himself he wouldn't lose his patience within the first few minutes but it was slowly draining away.

"You're getting on that plane even if I have to dress you and carry you there myself."

A small grin seemed to cross Sherlock's face but it was so quickly smoothed out, he might have been imagining it.

"_I_ may be too short to carry you properly but I can get people to help me, you know. Anderson and Donovan would be more than happy to volunteer."

The lack of response started to get on his nerves. Especially since he knew these were mostly empty threats. The detective inevitably would spring to life the second they managed to get him a foot from the bed, and he'd either run off somewhere or lock himself in another room.

Being a military man and sick of his threats being empty ones, he decided to follow through on at least one.

"Fine. If you're going to act like a child, so be it."

In an act of frustration he pulled what looked like an approximation of Sherlock's usual outfit out of the wardrobe, grabbed the end of the duvet and swept it off the bed.

His involuntary gasp both mirrored and covered up Sherlock's. Though one was from the shock of sudden cold and the other was from something else entirely. He had gotten used to Sherlock being almost completely covered up all the time. Any time he'd seen Sherlock in pajamas he was lounging around the house in long, silk pajamas and a dressing gown. It had never occurred to him that they might have just been for lounging, so he wasn't expecting it when his pulling the covers had revealed Sherlock in a just a light, blue, short-sleeved shirt and a pair of boxers. His eyes took in every inch of pale, exposed skin and his mind drifted without his consent onto the topic of what things looked like under the few clothes that were there. To his horror he could feel a physical reaction, pressing against his jeans, betraying him along with the mental one. He quickly forced his eyes to the ceiling and his mind onto other topics.

Sherlock recovered his composure long before John did and his face quickly smoothed out once more. He hadn't even opened his eyes.

_Ok, ok. That threw you. No matter. Get yourself back on track. You'd have had to undress him to dress him anyway; you just didn't think it through. Just keep going. You were in the army; a shirtless room-mate isn't going to control you. And that is. Just. Morning. Wood._

Despite his desperate attempts to fool himself, he knew he'd be in trouble if he had to actually go over to Sherlock, but also that the world's only consulting detective wouldn't take long to suspect something if he stayed where he was. He was stuck between a rock and a hard place and he hoped against hope he could just get Sherlock to behave this once. He swallowed hard and did his best to keep the desperation out of his voice when he asked:

"Are you going to grow up and dress yourself or are you actually going to make me do it?"

Still no response. He sighed and resigned himself to following through. He couldn't back down now.

"Fine. Fine, Sherlock, just... fine."

He angrily grabbed the shirt he'd taken from the wardrobe and marched over to the bed.

_Mind over matter. Mind over matter._

Climbing onto the bed, he placed his knees either side of Sherlock's hips (keeping his unfortunate erection as far from Sherlock as he could) and started undoing his shirt buttons.

As he undid the last button he pulled the two sides of Sherlock's shirt apart and couldn't help gasping a second time; he was mesmerised by the beauty of the man's slim, pale body. John's eyes worked their way from the contours of Sherlock's high cheekbones, his neck and collar-bone, down across his chest and stomach. Obviously when he had pulled the blankets, he had pulled the waistband of Sherlock's boxers down slightly and his eyes alighted on this area. He noticed right above the waistband was a small indent where Sherlock's hips joined the rest of his body. What had started as a mild case of what could be explained away as morning wood was growing alarmingly. He was close to panicking and was about to make an excuse (some excuse, any excuse) and leave, when to his surprise he felt a similar reaction from Sherlock coming up to meet his. His eyes widened and he looked down.

In what had to have been a valiant effort, Sherlock had stayed perfectly still as all this was happening but he too, as it turned out, was only human, and his body had betrayed him in the same way as John's. Despite continuing to lie still, Sherlock's muscles were tensed up, his expression was more one of concentration than relaxation and neither of them could ignore how they were reacting to each other, no matter how hard they both were trying.

Sherlock's commitment to the act was starting to impress and infuriate John in equal measures. His eyes took a hungry look up and down Sherlock's exposed body and a sudden urge overtook him. In one wild moment he decided he was going to break Sherlock's composure if it was the last thing he did.

_Let's see him ignore this._

Without any further warning, and in one fast, fluid movement, he slid his legs further down the bed, lowered his mouth to Sherlock's hips and nipped the indent above his waistband with his teeth. He heard what could only be described as a yelp from the other man and in the blink of an eye Sherlock was gone from underneath him and sitting up. He feared he'd misread something or gone too far, until he sat back up and saw Sherlock's face. He looked positively feral. His eyes were wild, he was breathing heavily and he looked... The only way John could describe it was hungry.

In the blink of an eye Sherlock closed the distance between them and their lips crashed together. The momentum carried them both backwards and John slammed back into the mattress with Sherlock on top of him. He was momentarily surprised but then he found that all of his denials and repression just flew out the window and things became crystal clear; From the moment they'd met, things were leading up to this. He couldn't have stopped it no matter how hard he'd tried, and he found himself incredibly glad of that.

As soon as he'd come to this realisation, he committed to the kiss, which so far had been mostly Sherlock's doing. He wasn't just being kissed now, he was kissing back, and he was determined to hold his own. He pushed himself back up off the mattress and pushed Sherlock down onto his pillow, running his hands through his dark curls, enjoying the sensation immensely. As their tongues intertwined, he felt Sherlock's hips buck towards him reflexively and his long, slender fingers fumbling to undo his shirt buttons. Sherlock tugged John's shirt off and took the opportunity to throw his own to the floor along with it. He seemed about to start on John's trousers when he was distracted by teeth biting down softly on his lips and responded by moving one hand down to rub John's ever-growing erection and twisting the other around his back, pulling him closer.

For a man who hadn't known anything about sex a few days ago, Sherlock had either done a lot of research or was a _very _fast natural learner, because John hadn't been excited this much by anyone in his life. The fact that doing this with a man didn't matter to him anymore; all that mattered was that that man was Sherlock.

Sherlock rolled them over so that he was on top again and moved his hands up John's body, bringing them to rest on his waist. The fingers had been cold but John felt them leave trails of fire behind them. He'd seen them do immensely skilful things on the violin and the thoughts of what they could do to him nearly sent him over the edge. He felt Sherlock's mouth move from his, travelling along the line of his jaw, planting kisses and small nips as it went, and the hands tighten their grip. He felt his eyes rolling back into his head and found it hard to concentrate on what he'd been doing. Sherlock moved down his jaw-line to the hollow of his neck and John could feel his breath ghosting across his chest, eliciting an embarrassing moan. Suddenly Sherlock tensed up and his grip tightened further. John was almost sure that would leave bruises and that he'd care about that at some point in the future. He was also sure that right then he loved it; Sherlock couldn't have held him tight enough if he tried. He brought his hands up and in a fit of lust brought on from John's moan he carded his hands through his hair, buried his face in the hollow of his neck and took a love-bite that he was sure would leave a mark. John should have been angry but he felt strangely proud that Sherlock was marking him, taking possession of him, claiming him as his own.

Sherlock wasn't the only one who wanted to lay a claim. He wasn't sure what this was or how long it would last, but he was sure he wasn't going to be the only one carrying evidence that it had happened. With what was perhaps a feeling of one-upmanship, he drifted his lips across Sherlock's cheek and delivered a similar bite at the top of his jaw-line, which would be even more clearly visible than the one that he had been given. He was very satisfied at the deep, feral growl this brought forth from Sherlock and when he switched their positions again, he found himself eager to devour every inch of his new-found lover.

He worked his way down from Sherlock's neck, across his stomach and down to that indent at his hips that had started everything. Giving it another nip he rubbed his hands over Sherlock's bulge, causing his lover's hands to bunch in the sheets and his breath to hitch in his throat. Unable to contain the urge any longer, he pulled off Sherlock's boxers. He met Sherlock's gaze and noticed his eyes were slightly glassy, the pupils dilated, and was glad to be having the same effect on Sherlock as Sherlock was having on him.

This was all new to him, but he found he too was learning quickly. He'd never given a blow-job before but he'd received them and he knew what he liked. He figured the rest was intuitive and the look Sherlock was giving him was so enticing, he was eager to give it a try.

He smirked and lowered his mouth into position, satisfied at the noise it brought out of Sherlock, and started moving up and down. He'd expected it to be fairly uncomfortable, and a lot more fun for Sherlock than him, but he found to his surprise he was enjoying it too. What were especially enjoyable were the poorly concealed moans and whimpers it was producing from the man underneath him. As he went faster, he could feel things were about to come to a climax but Sherlock stopped him before he went too far.

John tilted his head to the side questioningly but Sherlock just brought his lips close to John's ear and whispered:

"Your turn now."

A shiver went down his spine and he found he nearly went over the edge himself. Sherlock was sucking on the hollow of his neck again and he was tempted to just lose himself in the sensation. A sudden thought held him back though.

"Umm... Sherlock...?"

"Mmm?"

Sherlock hadn't moved or stopped what he was doing and the vibration this sound sent through him lost him his train of thought for a moment.

"We... Oh Sherlock you have no _idea_ what that's doing to me..."

He could imagine the answering smile looked as he felt it on his skin. Sherlock seemed to take the hint that he had something to say, wrapped his arms lightly around John's waist and brought himself back up so they were face to face.

"You're wondering how far we're going to go with this."

It was a statement, not a question. He didn't bother inquiring how the deduction had been made.

"Yes. I mean it's not that I'm not enjoying this. _Trust me,_ it's not that."

He was distracted again by the warm chuckle that answered his statement, noticing the delicious look on his partner's face and how intimate the situation had become. They were speaking to each other barely above a whisper or a low murmur, as if anything louder than that would shatter the moment.

"You'd just like to know where you stand, so neither of us oversteps any boundaries." As if to illustrate his point, Sherlock planted a small, chaste kiss lightly on his lips.

Again, it had been a statement and not a question. How the hell had he gotten this knowledgeable so quickly?

"Well yes..." He had very nearly asked how, but they'd both stopped in the middle of a process that wasn't really designed to have long breaks in the middle, and he didn't think either of them could wait long enough for the answer.

Sherlock, who seemed to be thinking along the same lines, hurried him along.

"We stand where you want us to. What do you want?" Sherlock's tone was neutral enough, obviously meant to indicate that there was no pressure, but his eyes told a different story. He looked desperate and hopeful, but somehow hurt at the same time. Like a puppy who wanted to be hugged and loved but was expecting to be kicked instead.

Whatever indecision he had was dispelled by that look. He never wanted Sherlock to have that look in his eyes again, especially not because of him. He closed the small gap between them, wrapping Sherlock up in a tight hug.

"_You_. I want you, Sherlock."

That seemed to be all the encouragement that was needed, because within seconds everything was frantic again. Sherlock's lips were on his and there couldn't have been so much as a sliver of daylight between their bodies. It was all hands and lips and moans and friction and tangled limbs and it was hard to tell, while he was caught up in the moment, exactly where he ended and Sherlock began. He didn't exactly mind.

As things escalated they broke apart for air and, breathing heavily, Sherlock asked:

"Do you want to take things..." He seemed unsure how to say it "...all the way?"

John swallowed hard. He hadn't really thought that far ahead. One glance up and down Sherlock's body and back up to the hungry look in his eyes told him all he needed to know though. He wanted him, he wanted _everything_ that involved, and he wanted them to connect physically as well as emotionally. He knew being Sherlock's first partner and Sherlock being his first male partner would be special, and there was no way he was passing that up.

John looked him straight in the eyes and he saw Sherlock grin almost predatorily; he'd obviously deduced everything running through John's head. To his credit, he actually waited for confirmation before acting.

"Oh God, yes." He whispered.

He felt his heart speed up as Sherlock's hand reached into the night-stand and brought out some tissue, a condom and a bottle of lube.

"You... You really came prepared for this didn't you?" He tried to keep the nerves out of his voice but it seemed to have gone somewhat high-pitched of its own accord.

Rather than be embarrassed, Sherlock only smirked.

"Remember that case with the adult shop?" John nodded "Well, I kept a few things in here. For... further research..."

John's breath caught as he wondered what other sort of things he might have kept, but he was brought back to reality by a squirting sound and the feeling of Sherlock's talented fingers getting to work, getting him ready.

"Oh... Sherlock..." He moaned. It was embarrassing but he was completely unable to hold it back.

Sherlock didn't seem to mind. In fact it seemed to please him immensely and spur him on.

"Are you ready?" He asked seriously

John, who was falling to pieces in Sherlock's hands, was only able to nod.

He positioned himself between John's legs while John wrapped his legs around Sherlock's hips. His eyes widened as Sherlock slipped inside him and he couldn't help letting out a gasp.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked, genuinely concerned "We can stop."

"I'll be fine. Just a surprise... Don't you dare stop."

Surprisingly gentle, Sherlock slid back and forth, slowly at first but as John grew accustomed to the feeling, he increased the intensity until they were both panting with the effort. He brought them slowly backwards until John was propped up against the headboard and they were face to face again.

Both of them were dangerously close to coming undone at this point; their breath coming in short bursts and their muscles tensing. As he felt they were coming to the end, Sherlock handed John the tissue and John brought himself further forward to steal a passionate kiss from Sherlock's already kiss-swollen lips. This was more than either of them could handle; John came then and there and Sherlock followed him a few seconds later.

Sherlock pulled out and they both collapsed back onto the bed, John with his head on Sherlock's chest, breathing heavily and completely spent. Sherlock dropped the tissue and condom into the bin beside the bed and then relaxed into John's embrace. As their breathing slowed and returned to normal, they lay there together in comfortable silence, nothing needing to be said.

The last thing John wanted to do was ruin this moment or break the silence. In fact he wanted to just lie there, wrapped around Sherlock, forever. A nagging thought kept coming though, and he knew it wouldn't go away until he addressed it. He took a deep breath.

"Umm, not to kill the moment or anything but...when I introduce you to people from now on, what word do I use? Boyfriend? Where exactly do we stand with this? Did this just happen on the spur of the moment, without us thinking it through? Are we going to be able to look each other in the face at breakfast? I mean... are things going to get... weird between us? Is it going to get embarrassing and awkward, and I'll have to move out?"

Because that was that very last thing he wanted. Not after all they'd been through. Not after Sherlock had saved him from limping his way through life, never doing anything exciting ever again. Not after how close they'd suddenly become. Not when Sherlock had carved himself such a huge place in John's heart. He didn't think he could take it if they went their separate ways at this point.

Thankfully Sherlock seemed similarly scared by that possibility. He turned around and clasped John's hands in his.

"Never. Not in a million years." He said fervently. Then his voice took on a far more pleading tone, his hands seemed to shake slightly and that look came into his eyes again. "Whatever happens, please don't leave."

"So, where _do_ we stand with this? It's not that I'm not enjoying spending the occasional night in your bed and it's definitely not that I didn't enjoy _that_. Though how I'll be able to sit still for two hours on a plane now, I have no idea..."

He decided to ignore the snort of laughter his last sentence had produced from Sherlock and continue before he lost his nerve.

"It's just that I can't take all the uncertainty. If we're out and I meet a friend of mine do I say you're my boyfriend? Are you my boyfriend? Do you want to be? Do you want to tell people? Or are we just friends who sleep together?"

Sherlock didn't seem quite sure how to answer. His mouth opened as if to start a sentence a few times but it always closed almost right away. Eventually he sighed and, seeming quite disappointed in himself over something, he again asked:

"What do _you_ want?"

John, at this point, was completely exasperated.

"It's not about what _I_ want. It's about what _we _want. There are two of us in this; you seem to be leaving all the decisions up to me. Normally you're the decisive one, I mean why-"

And suddenly it clicked with John why Sherlock kept asking him so uncertainly what it was that he wanted out of this; why every time he waited for the answer biting his bottom lip and holding his breath. Sherlock had already made up his mind but was too afraid of being rejected to say it. He'd forgotten that Sherlock was so new to all of this. It was strange to see the man who was normally so certain and self-assured finally have a question he didn't know the answer to.

His expression softened.

"Tell me what you want us to call ourselves Sherlock. I told you earlier that I want _you_, and I didn't just say it to get you into bed or anything, I actually meant it. So as long as we can be together I'm happy with whatever name you want to put on it."

Sherlock's face relaxed into a shy smile and he placed his hand gently on John's cheek.

"Would you like to be my boyfriend, John?"

He pulled Sherlock in for a kiss. It was a quick meeting of lips, but it left warmth spreading through both of their chests.

"Oh God, yes."

The shy smile now evolved into a full-blown grin and was mirrored by John as he settled back into his previous position on Sherlock's chest.

"You know I've been meaning to ask," John murmured contentedly "How did you... get quite so knowledgeable so quickly?"

He felt Sherlock's answering chuckle reverberate through him.

"It seemed as though an area of my knowledge was severely lacking. The internet is a very informative, if mildly disturbing, place and it provided more on the subject than I could possibly ask for. Some of it unreliable, but I found plenty that was useful."

John couldn't stop a snort of laughter escaping. He could only imagine the sort of stuff Sherlock had found on his internet travels. He shuddered to think of what Sherlock had seen that was bad enough to be classed as disturbing by a man who was in the habit of storing body parts in the fridge. He hoped fervently that he'd deleted most of it, though what he kept definitely seemed to be the right stuff. Only Sherlock Holmes could learn how to do all he suddenly seemed capable of from an internet search alone.

"Trust you to find all the answers through technology..."

"Well," Sherlock looked down, actually blushing faintly "Some of it was more intuitive than anything... Also some of the sources were unreliable. All of the videos giving an... active demonstration... were nearly useless. They were clinical and passionless, more about the mechanics than anything. There didn't seem to be much love in the act for them..."

The round of laughter that would have been brought on from the image of Sherlock watching porn and taking notes on it was dispelled by the end of that sentence. John played it back in his head a few times before he could be sure he'd actually heard it.

"...Love?" His voice was small, hopeful and tentative "You... Love me?"

"Apparently so. I was at a loss to figure out what it was you were making me feel. It was no medical condition and there was much more to it than lust. Though I normally stay clear of anything as vague or subjective as forums for answers, I had exhausted every other line of research and had to resort to social sciences." He said 'social sciences' with obvious distaste, as though it offended his scientific sensibilities.

John was still too busy processing this to say anything.

"I listed the symptoms in my question. Missing you when you weren't around; needing to know you were safe; elevated heart rate in nearly direct proportion to your proximity; you constantly being on my mind; the extremely large amount of space in my mind that seemed dedicated to information about you... And then came the answer: "Dude, I think you're in love". It was inelegantly phrased, but the more I researched what love is, the more I suspected they were right."

John was still processing this fully, but a slightly shocked smile was growing on his face.

"You... You love me." This time it wasn't a question but a realisation.

Sherlock simply answered "Yes. I don't know how it happened, but yes."

He suddenly threw his arms around Sherlock's neck and brought their lips together again. The kiss was full of passion and elation but eventually lack of oxygen forced it to come to an end. John lay with his face barely an inch from Sherlock's and his arms still around Sherlock's neck.

"I don't know how it happened either, but I love you too. I've been trying to deny it for God knows how long, but there doesn't seem any point in fooling myself anymore."

Sherlock didn't say anything in return but he was positively beaming as he placed his arms around John's waist and pulled their bodies closer.

"Now isn't this much better than going to silly old Cardiff?" he asked smugly

"If you tell me this was all because you didn't want to get on a plane I will literally never speak to you again..."

John's tone had been light and joking but Sherlock's face still fell a bit.

"Of course not. I was planning on simply laying still until you got fed up and left. Then while you went to get assistance I was going to sneak down the fire escape and watch the ensuing scene from a café across the street."

John couldn't help but laugh.

"I _knew_ you were going to make that awkward for me..."

"Yes. I'm much happier with how it turned out though."

They shared a smile.

"So am I." And he smugly added "We're still going to Cardiff by the way."

He could see Sherlock was gesturing towards the clock and about to argue that it was far too late to make it, but he cut him off.

"I set the clock ahead a few hours hoping you'd think you were off the hook get up in time for me to drag you to the airport. We actually have half an hour before we have to get up and go. It was a long-shot; I'm surprised you fell for it actually."

"Well I had other things on my mind this morning, you know." Sherlock replied, indignant that his skills of deduction were being called into question.

Now it was John's turn to chuckle. He noted that it didn't seem to come out half as alluring as Sherlock's trademarked chuckles usually seem to, but he ignored that.

"So, for in general and when we go to the airport – we _are_ going to the airport Sherlock – are we telling people? Am I allowed hold your hand in public?"

Sherlock took a minute to contemplate this and then said reluctantly:

"I'll come to Cardiff if we can share a bed at the hotel."

"Deal." John smiled "I was hoping we would actually. What about my other questions?"

"I'd appreciate if we kept it quiet from Mycroft; the less he knows about my personal life the better. I wasn't even happy that he found out you'd moved in. Also Donovan and Anderson; we don't need them in our personal business either. Anyone else knowing is fine though. Is there anyone you'd like me to keep it quiet from?"

"Not that I can think of. Donovan and Anderson are the only ones I'd think of keeping it from and you already mentioned them." He rolled his eyes "I can just hear them now; "John and Sherlock in a tree...""

There was a pause where Sherlock raised an eyebrow and tilted his head to the side, genuinely perplexed.

"John...Why on _earth_ would we be in a tree?"


	5. Leaving On A JetPlane Part II

**AN: This was originally meant to be a two-part story, the previous part and what's now going to be the part three, but it seems to be taking on a life of its own. Please excuse any odd grammar. I wrote this all in one go and while I did proof-read it, it's gone very late and I might have missed stuff.**

**Thank you for all the lovely reviews by the way ^_^**

Despite firmly telling Sherlock they had to be out of bed in half an hour to be sure of catching the taxi, it took a good fifteen minutes after the half hour was up before he managed to first convince himself to get up and then convince Sherlock. In fact he only managed this through telling him they'd have to shower together to save time. He had then moved so fast that John swore if they'd been in a cartoon Sherlock would have left a cloud of dust behind him.

The shower together in fact took longer than they probably would have separately, but neither of them particularly minded. It did leave little time for anything else though. They both burst out the door of the flat, just about on time, looking quite frankly ridiculous. This was probably due to the combined effect of being in a rush; dressing hurriedly; having slightly damp, towel-dried hair; running down several flights of stairs with their suitcases; the bottles of water under John's arm; the piece of toast John was holding in his mouth and the other three in his hand, two of which he was pretty much trying to force-feed to Sherlock as they ran.

"You're going to choke us both if you continue with that, you know."

John tried to force out an argument around the piece of toast in his mouth "Oo eed oo eef ummfing"

"What was that John?" Sherlock asked mock-innocently, "I didn't quite catch that."

The answering glare was mutinous, but John had enough sense to dump his suitcase in the back of the taxi and finish his first piece of toast before trying again.

"I said you need to eat something." He made another attempt at getting Sherlock to eat as he was dumping his own suitcase in on top of John's. "C'mon, I have the toast right here. I'm just going to keep waving it at you until you have some."

Grudgingly, Sherlock took one of the proffered pieces of toast, looked at it disdainfully and took a small bite from the corner when they had climbed into the back of the taxi.

"There. That wasn't so hard, was it?" John watched out of the corner of his eye as Sherlock ate the rest of that piece staring out the window, clearly trying to pretend he wasn't hungry. He handed over the next one without a word and caught a small smile tugging at the corners of Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock's phone went off mid-journey, but in an uncharacteristic move, Sherlock not only ignored it but grimaced, leaning his head forward and pinching the bridge of his nose in obvious irritation. When he was done he gave it such a glare through his pocket that John wouldn't have been surprised if the thing caught fire. He thought it best not to ask questions about it.

Sherlock seemed to calm down and forgive his phone between there and the airport, but he was still resolutely refusing to check who the text was from when they reached their final destination. They climbed out of the taxi, John paying the fare and thanking the driver politely while Sherlock looked down at his already dishevelled coat and suit with distaste.

"I knew that toast was going to be trouble. I'm covered in crumbs now." He complained, trying to brush them off himself one-handed while still dragging his suitcase behind him.

"Oh, come here. You're never going to get them off that way." John put his suitcase down beside Sherlock and started brushing the crumbs off him, making considerably more progress.

"Stay still." He commanded, as Sherlock was constantly backing away from him.

A mischievous grin spread across the consulting detective's face as he let go of the handle of his case and pulled away more playfully this time.

"No, stop that!" John couldn't help laughing as he sprang forward attempting to dislodge the remaining crumbs and Sherlock continued to duck away from him with that teasing smile on his face. "Sherlock! No, seriously, stop it. We're going to be late..."

They heard a throat being cleared loudly behind them.

"We do have a murderer to catch you know, while you two play chasing in the car park."

They turned to see Lestrade standing behind them with his arms crossed. His stance and his tone were stern, but he was smiling fondly.

They immediately sprang apart and straightened up; Sherlock primly brushing the remainder of the crumbs from his clothes and taking a firm hold of his suitcase again and John retrieving his own case from several metres away then returning, looking sheepish.

"Sorry..." John muttered.

To his relief, Lestrade broke into a laugh.

"Trust me; I'm just glad you got him here. I was expecting to have to go arrest him for something or send him pictures from the crime-scene on my mobile." He actually looked quite impressed "How the hell _did_ you get him here anyway? Kidnapping? Threats? Bribery?"

John sputtered, his mind flailing wildly around for a response other than 'he's here because he knows we're going to shag each other's brains out at the hotel' but thankfully Sherlock came to his rescue.

"I am standing right here you know." He said frostily "And I came here as a favour, so you could be more grateful."

Before Lestrade could make any comment, Sherlock's posture stiffened and he made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat.

"You didn't tell me Donovan and Anderson were coming." He accused.

The inspector sighed.

"How did you deduce that then? You noticed I don't have the boarding passes on me and took a shot in the dark?"

"Actually I assumed you had them in your bag."

"Oh right, then how-"

"They're strolling towards us, looking insufferable as ever."

John wondered idly how someone could look insufferable from such a distance, since they were still far enough away that he was surprised Sherlock could tell it was them, and then groaned inwardly. They were the last two people he wanted to be stuck on a plane or in a hotel with and they were sure to figure out he and Sherlock were a couple now if they spent too long together. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Sherlock tensing further and making sure once more that a combination of his hair, collar and scarf were properly hiding the love-bite he'd been given earlier. John tried to do the same thing himself as subtly as possible. Lestrade seemed to be looking right at him though, and feeling under speculation he didn't make much progress with it.

"Don't worry Sherlock; you're not going to be bunking with Anderson or anything. You're not meant to be officially helping us, so I had to say I was bringing them with me to get the other two tickets. If you two didn't show up, they were going to come up to Cardiff and help instead. Now that you're here, they're giving us the tickets and heading home to pretend they're in Cardiff for a few days." Lestrade's grimace showed that he had as good an idea as Sherlock did about what they'd be getting up to during those few days but, ever the professional, he didn't voice it aloud.

By the time Lestrade was done saying this, the aforementioned pair were less than ten metres away and he took the opportunity to give Sherlock one warning before they came into ear-shot.

"I'm going over to see what desk we're checking our luggage at. You behave yourself. They'll be here less than five minutes and then they're leaving. I'd appreciate if I could get one instance of you not antagonising my team. Just one is all I ask. Play nice."

Sherlock looked off to the left and muttered something petulantly, which sounded suspiciously like "I will if they will..."

John took the opportunity to stand closer to Sherlock and present a united front. Also to hand him one of the two water bottles he'd been carrying.

"Here, this'll keep your mouth busy. You need to rehydrate anyway."

Lestrade gave them a bit of a funny look as he walked into the terminal but it had produced the smile he'd been hoping for from Sherlock and that was the main thing. He was glad to notice that along with the smile, his shoulders had relaxed slightly.

They stiffened straight up again when Donovan sauntered over and in what John now found to be her incredibly annoying voice had announced:

"Well, well, this is a turn up for the books. The freak has blessed us with his company."

It had always bothered John when she called Sherlock a freak. Even the very first time, he had been taken slightly aback by it. Sherlock was there doing them a favour and catching them a killer after all, what gave her the right to try and bring him down because he was smarter than her?

This time he positively bristled as the word left her mouth.

He kept himself in check, remembering Lestrade's warning to behave and resolving that if Sherlock wasn't going to let her bring him down to her level then he wasn't going to either. Anderson joined in, his tone condescending.

"To what do we owe the pleasure then? Not enough bodies in the morgue to play with? Thought you'd take the freak-show on the road?"

Sherlock's face remained impassive but John who was standing much closer to Sherlock than he normally did, felt the tension in his stance mounting. He suddenly hated no word more than that one. He was forcibly reminded of school, where anyone with a scruffy uniform, or good exam results, or even a different hair-cut was put through this sort of thing. He'd watched a lot of nature shows as a child and the kids back then had brought circling hyenas to his mind, laughing and ganging up on the different ones who had nobody to defend them, nobody to help make it a fair fight. Donovan and Anderson suddenly brought all of that back to him. It was like being back on the playground, not taunting the poor kid himself, not having anything against him, but too scared to step in and stop what was going on. He couldn't help but wonder how much of this Sherlock had had to put up with in his life, how many times he'd been hurt emotionally and physically because he had a gift, and felt how ridiculously unfair it was that he still had to put up with it in the adult world because these two still acted like children.

Sherlock gave a tight-lipped response, contempt dripping from his words.

"Your wit is razor-sharp as always Anderson. Did Sally help you come up with that line while she was over last night? She's wearing your deodorant again. By the looks of the bags under both your eyes you were up half the night with it. Does your wife know how much of your work you take home?"

John was glad that Sherlock had gotten a punch in, but he couldn't help wondering how many years of torment it took for that defence mechanism to develop itself and, despite his show of bravado, how much their words still affected him. Judging by the fact that he could feel the hand closest to him clenched into a tight fist, a lot more than he let on. He wanted to take Sherlock's hand in his own and tell him how special he was, until everything anyone had ever told him that said otherwise was erased, but he knew he couldn't; not here anyway. He could only clench his own hands into fists, hoping Lestrade would come back soon to send these two on their way.

Unfortunately, while delivering his response, Sherlock had unconsciously tilted his head to the side and his scarf slipped down slightly. Normally this wouldn't have mattered at all, but hateful sharp-eyed bitch that she was (in John's mind anyway), Donovan spotted the barely concealed mark on Sherlock's jaw-line.

A sadistic smirk spread across her face.

"Well, look what we have here." She stalked to the left towards Sherlock, who seemed to have been frozen to the spot "Looks like the freak's found someone to get freaky with."

Anderson joined her further to the right, grinning equally unpleasantly.

"You're right, you know." He chimed in, leaning in towards Sherlock to get a better look. John felt Sherlock physically restraining himself from leaning away "What have you been up to then, freak? Been messing round with the bodies in the morgue?"

Sherlock seemed lost at sea. His cheeks were starting to redden and in his embarrassment all his usual wit had deserted him. The best thing he could come up with was "That doesn't even make sense."

John absolutely hated himself in that moment. He knew now they'd got their claws into Sherlock they wouldn't let go until they'd completely humiliated him; and it was all because he'd decided to give him that love-bite. What had been something special between them an hour ago was now being dragged through the mud. He'd never hated anyone more than he hated Donovan and Anderson right then. It was possibly because of that that he finally got the courage to do what he could never do back when he was in school.

"And what the hell business is it of yours who he was with or what he was doing? Eh?" He demanded, squaring up to Anderson "He doesn't have to answer to _you_. He did nothing wrong. _He's_ not married. _HE'S _not the one fucking around behind his wife's back with Sergeant Bimbo over there!" He gestured with his thumb over towards a shocked Sergeant Donovan, who now had an equally shocked Lestrade standing behind her.

It was immature. He'd sunk down to their level and he'd taken a dirty shot. He honestly didn't care; it had wiped the smug smiles off their faces and he could see Sherlock positively beaming beside him. The victory was short-lived though.

"And why are _you _jumping in to defend him all of a sudden?" Sergeant Donovan had recovered her composure long before Anderson or Lestrade, who were still standing with their mouths gaping open, and she was looking for revenge.

From pure nerves, John's hand went unconsciously towards the back of his neck. This unfortunately drew her sharp eyes into his collar and to his own mark from their earlier activities.

"Oh... Well would you look at that, the freak's not the only one who's been busy." She grinned malevolently "Now I get it. He got tired of you just being his little pet, didn't he? He's got you servicing him now as well as trailing after him like a puppy. _Wow_. That's _pathetic_."

"Donovan..." Lestrade warned.

She ignored him, reaching her hand towards John's collar to expose the mark to Anderson when Sherlock's fingers clamped around her wrist.

"Don't you _dare_ touch him." Sherlock's eyes had narrowed to slits and his tone was quite possibly the single most menacing thing John had ever heard. For a split second John was sure he was going to break her wrist. He was trying to find his voice to calm Sherlock down, but Lestrade beat him to it.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock jumped at the sudden loud noise, seemed to come back to his senses and released his grip. He stepped back to John's side, still glaring at Donovan, who was returning it in equal force while rubbing her wrist.

Lestrade stepped between them.

"Donovan, Anderson, apologise. What two unmarried people do in their own home is their own business and none of yours." He had made sure to emphasise the word 'unmarried'. He then turned to John and Sherlock. "Sherlock mate, seriously, I can understand why you're angry, but apologise to Donovan. _Please_ don't make me arrest you for assaulting a police officer, especially since we have a flight to catch."

His mouth twitched into a slight smile towards the end of the sentence, which Sherlock returned, knowing he wasn't really in much trouble over the incident.

"My deepest and sincerest apologies, Sally." He proclaimed silkily, smirking and bowing theatrically as he did it. John tried not to laugh and Lestrade looked off to the right, rolling his eyes and sporting a poorly concealed grin. He cleared his throat again.

"With the flight in mind, it's probably time we went and checked our bags." His voice took on a sterner tone "Donovan, Anderson, apologise to John and Sherlock then go home. I'll talk to you both when I get back about proper police behaviour. You're meant to finish fights, not start them."

They both mumbled something which was probably the closest anyone was going to get to 'sorry', handed over the tickets, aimed one last glare at Sherlock and walked off together towards the car park.

"Well..." John started nervously "That was unpleasant for all concerned..."

He looked sideways to see Lestrade smiling with one eyebrow raised.

"So, you and Sherlock, eh?"

They both nodded, somewhat uncomfortable. Lestrade's smile turned into a full-blown grin.

"About time, too. Though I wish you'd stuck it out until New Years. I owe your brother money now you know, Sherlock."

Both John and Sherlock were somewhat taken aback.

"Wait... you knew we were...? But _we_ didn't even know we were... I mean... How...?"

Sherlock's reaction was more coherent than John's.

"Mycroft's making money betting on other people's emotions. How very like him. I'd gladly offer to keep it from him until New Years comes around but I'm fairly sure he already knows. There's an unread text message in my pocket and any message that sounds that annoying when I receive it can only be from Mycroft."

The grin widened further and he clapped them both on the back, steering them towards the check-in desks.

"Trust me on this guys, _everyone_ knew. Me, Mycroft, Anthea and Mrs Hudson had quite a betting pool going on when you two would finally figure it out. Turns out nobody should bet against Mycroft. And yes, he already knows. He texted me when I was inside telling me to come out before one of the four of you did something I'd need to arrest you for. He also upgraded us to first class tickets and a better hotel while he was at it; said to call it a gift to the happy couple."

Sherlock's emotions seemed to be warring between irritation and amusement, but he eventually settled for being glad of the luxurious bed that surely awaited them in Cardiff, trying not to think about the fact that his brother had arranged it or the intervening plane journey. He took a deep breath and let Lestrade lead them into the terminal.


	6. Leaving On A JetPlane Part III

**AN: I'm sorry for how ridiculously long this particular chapter took to write. It's the longest in the series so far, school has decided to crush my soul with the workload I'm receiving and I couldn't seem to write any dialogue that I was happy with. I'm still not entirely happy in some parts, but I think it's as close as it's getting. I'm starting to over-think it far too much. I know, excuses excuses, but it's the best explanation I have for the delay.**

**But anyway.**

**The inspiration (and a few lines) for the first part of this comes from an xkcd comic (/651/), which made me think 'Wow, that's pretty much exactly how Sherlock would react to airport security'. Also, I'm baffled by just how much of this particular story my head seems to be supplying me with; especially since it was originally meant to just be the bedroom scene and the actual plane trip...**

**I've never flown first class, or on anything but an Irish airline, so if the details of the actual plane (especially the first class cabin) or the restricted items for flights are a bit off, please forgive me.**

John's optimism about the trip managed to stay with him past the baggage check (which went off without a hitch), past receiving their boarding passes and lasted all the way up until they reached the security check-point. While they were waiting in line he saw Sherlock's keen eyes darting around the terminal, probably figuring out then promptly forgetting the life story of everyone he saw, then finally alighting on the huge list of prohibited items and security warnings. The second he saw Sherlock's brow furrowing in confusion and annoyance, he knew there'd be trouble.

"What's all this rubbish about? Everything in tiny plastic bags? Small bottles of liquid? Why do I have to take off my shoes and belt?"

John sighed, sensing it was going to be a long few hours.

"They're safety precautions Sherlock. They're there to keep everyone in the airport safe and alive." He didn't particularly believe that, but he wanted to avoid the inevitable scene if at all possible. Unfortunately, Sherlock was having none of it.

"How exactly will having belts and shoes on kill us? Things weren't like this the last time I was on a plane..." He grimaced.

John pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation and tried once more getting Sherlock to just cooperate.

"People... I don't know... Smuggle things in? They can bring stuff on and make bombs, or attack the pilot... You know everything's gotten so much stricter since... Well, you know... Please just go along with it." He looked Sherlock straight in the eyes "Please?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrow, obviously having no idea what 'Well, you know...' was referring to, but dropped the question before he'd even asked it. He'd learnt a small amount of the solar system to appease John but he didn't want to know about whatever this was, and if he didn't ask about it, he wouldn't have to sacrifice any space for it. It was a compromise he'd made between his desire to remember everything about the time he spent with John and the need to keep his mind clear. His head was getting far too crowded these days. He acquiesced with what he thought was good grace and all went well right up until the end of the queue.

The three of them split off towards different security checkpoints to help save time. Both John and Lestrade got through without a problem, but there was a distinct lack of Sherlock when they reached the other side. John turned around to see what was taking so long and spotted him at the top of the longest queue, doing what looked suspiciously like calmly listing everything that was wrong with airport security to an increasingly frustrated employee.

John sighed and headed towards the checkpoint, hoping to drag Sherlock away before he was escorted off the premises, only to catch the tail of end of what had to be an exhausting argument. Sherlock was talking a mile a minute.

"...and furthermore if you're worried about bombs, why are you allowing me to bring my laptop batteries on board? They're made using Lithium ions which are highly reactive with air and water; if I over-volted them and breached the cells it would create a sizeable explosion. A laptop battery contains roughly the same amount of potential energy as a hand grenade, which has much more potential to damage the plane than the bottle of water which you insisted on confiscating from me. Also the-"

"Sherlock," John started sternly, stopping him mid-sentence, wary of the fact that Sherlock was probably three words away from being arrested "There's a queue building up and we've a flight to catch. Please just do whatever he asked you to and let's go."

The man, slightly dazed from Sherlock's rant, turned to him, obviously glad to have found someone reasonable but still a bit miffed at being talked down to.

"Sir, do you know this man?" He gestured towards Sherlock who was standing his ground petulantly, showing no signs of movement.

"Yes, he's my, eh, boyfriend." He had stumbled slightly over the suddenly unfamiliar word "I'm really sorry. He... Umm..." He wasn't quite sure how to finish that sentence. "He hasn't flown in awhile."

Seeing the look John was shooting him, Sherlock made the wise decision to go through without finishing his rant. John muttered his apologies and to his relief the man Sherlock had cornered was quite friendly when he wasn't being talked down to.

"Look, it's no problem; I've a brother who's a bit like that too. Just tell him to keep all that laptop battery stuff to himself; I was about to call security on him before you came over and those guys really don't joke around."

After diffusing the situation, retrieving Sherlock and getting through security without too much of an incident, they continued on through the duty-free. John noticed the group was listing towards the alcohol section and to his surprise noticed that Sherlock had been subtly directing them that way. Lestrade cleared his throat, gave Sherlock a stern look and corrected their course.

"No, Sherlock."

The detective put on what could only be described as a pout and muttered "You're no fun..."

John felt like he was missing something.

"But you don't even drink...?"

"I don't _fly_ either." Sherlock's tone told him not to pry, but despite having picked up on the bee-line that was being made for the alcohol cabinet, Lestrade didn't seem to pick up on this.

"You think he can be hard to deal with sober," The inspector rolled his eyes and winced, "you should see him under the influence of something. You still owe me for the last time by the way, Sherlock..."

John didn't like the way he'd said 'something', rather than just 'alcohol'. A worrying memory came unbidden into his mind.

_Everywhere John looked in Sherlock's apartment was crawling with police officers, while Sherlock himself was in the middle of a stand-off with Lestrade._

"_Well what do you call this then?" He inquired angrily, obviously irked at having his privacy invaded._

"_It's a drugs bust." Lestrade had replied cheerfully._

_To John in that moment, it had been one of the funniest things he had heard all day. Years of being a doctor had taught him (or so he thought) to know a drug-user when he saw one, and Sherlock was far from his idea of the average drug user. He'd actually laughed aloud and said as much._

"_Seriously? This guy? A junkie? Have you met him?"_

_He should have noticed Sherlock turning and walking towards him. He should have noticed the look on his face. He definitely should have noticed him saying "John..." in a warning tone, but he hadn't. He had kept going._

"_I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all day, you wouldn't find anything you could call recreational."_

_It was then that Sherlock's look had gotten properly serious and he'd muttered:_

"_John, you'd probably want to shut up now..."_

_It had taken him far too long to realise that Sherlock actually meant it._

"_Yeah, but come on..."_

_Sherlock's piercing glare finally brought home the fact that they might actually find something in the flat and that John was digging a very deep hole for himself._

"_No..."_

"_What?" Sherlock had asked, defiantly._

"_You?" He was still having trouble reconciling Sherlock with his traditional view of a drug-user._

"_Shut up!" Sherlock had looked disgusted, positively livid._

John had been so swept up in the case that had followed that he'd nearly completely forgotten it until now. He vividly remembered the next part.

"_It stops being pretend if they find anything." _

Looking back, Lestrade had seemed like a stern parent or teacher. He'd had a knowing look in his eyes.

"_I. Am. Clean!" Sherlock had hammered the point home indignantly and somewhat exasperatedly; almost as if they'd had this argument a few too many times._

_That knowing look was still in Lestrade's eyes._

"_But is your flat...? All of it?"_

As long as it was in Sherlock's past, he didn't care too much about the drugs. He'd done some stupid stuff when he was younger too, and felt it was unfair to hold it against Sherlock if he'd given it up. Though he did make a mental note to watch out for any signs of it starting up again in the future. While he was doing this, it suddenly struck John that while Sherlock had guessed his past from spending two minutes in his presence, he knew little to nothing about Sherlock's. He tried to catalogue what little he actually knew, and it seemed an incredibly small list.

_Plays the violin very well._

_Knows everything there is to know about crime, forensics and the back streets of London._

_Has at least one older brother and his mother is still alive._

_Works as a consulting detective._

_Is involved in a feud with his brother._

_Said brother may or may not be close to ruling the world._

_Had no sexual experience before this morning._

_Is a damn good shag, despite said lack of experience._

_Well... that's pathetic. _John thought, _He knows nearly everything about me and that's all I can think of for him..._

He supposed Sherlock _was_ very private, but it still seemed very inconsiderate to him as a friend or a boyfriend to not at least know the basics.

_Lestrade even seems to know a hell of a lot more about him than I do... They have history... _He thought bitterly.

He had been too wrapped up in these thoughts to pay attention after Lestrade's comment, so he didn't notice Sherlock's jaw clenching, the filthy look he had shot in Lestrade's direction and his body language growing increasingly agitated. He especially hadn't noticed Sherlock watching him apprehensively, afraid that he was being judged or that John was having second thoughts, and having his suspicions confirmed in his mind by John's sudden silence.

Things became increasingly awkward between the three of them after that. All three seemed to have forgotten the entire English language, not to mention most of the basics of walking, and the silence was stretching out uncomfortably. Lestrade, without meeting their eyes, made a mumbled, incomprehensible excuse when they reached the gate and headed off towards the bathrooms with more haste than was strictly necessary.

John's mind was reeling, trying to come up with a solution that would dispel the cloud that had settled over them.

_Oh, come on... Say something... Anything..._

"Umm... So... How about that weather out there?" He regretted it even as it was passing his lips, but it just blurted out without his consent. He buried his head in his hands.

_Well, you could have handled that better..._

He looked up through the gap in his fingers to see how badly it had gone over. Thankfully it seemed to amuse Sherlock, at least somewhat. His smile was wry at best, the laugh he let out breathy and with an edge to it, but it was something.

"Is that the best you can come up with, John? Honestly?"

"It just sort of slipped out..." He admitted sheepishly, then took a deep breath. "Look, Sherlock..."

"I knew it..." Sherlock interrupted him, his face twisted into a bitter mask. "If you're breaking off our partnership, please do it _now_ so I can go home."

This was the very last thing John had been expecting.

"You... what?" He honestly didn't mean to, it was so inappropriate and he didn't find this remotely funny, but he laughed. It had a slight edge of hysteria to it. Though he reigned it in as quickly as he could manage; Sherlock was definitely not in the mood. "I'm not breaking up with you, you stupid git. Why would you ever think that? For one thing we only got together this morning; you're not getting rid of me that quickly."

The bitter mask slipped off Sherlock's face to reveal just how vulnerable and fragile he was underneath. His voice was painfully relieved when he asked:

"You're not?"

John sighed and his expression softened further. With that look on Sherlock's face he had to very firmly tell his hand not to reach out; he had never gotten an answer about whether Sherlock was alright with hand-holding in public, after all, and he didn't want to push him. What he did do though, was give him the most comforting smile he could and rest his hand gently on his arm.

"Of course I'm not. Don't be silly, why would I?"

Sherlock's face remained neutral but John could see him visibly tensing and felt a slight shake in his arm. How had he not noticed all of this about Sherlock before? He'd had an image in his mind of the detective being nearly invincible, which was true to a certain extent, Sherlock could be tough as nails at times, but it surprised him to see just how easily breakable he could be too. The horrible notion of Mycroft delivering the traditional "If you ever hurt my little brother..." speech crossed his mind, but he decided to stop that train of thought before it went any further.

"There are elements of my past, and myself, which are... unsavoury. I was banking on you not discovering them, but the ever-helpful DI Lestrade had to bring that up... I'd really rather you didn't know." His eyes were down-cast, obviously still expecting judgement. It suddenly came into John's head that Sherlock must have had an incredibly strict father, and maybe that was why he wasn't too involved with his family.

_Huh, Sherlock must have taught me a few deduction skills without me realising..._

He brought himself back to reality and the situation at hand.

"Come on," He nudged the other man's shoulder, trying to lighten things. "If I can handle the head in the fridge, surely you have to know I can handle this?"

He was rewarded for his efforts when the corners of Sherlock's mouth turned up slightly. "If I remember correctly, you didn't handle that very well."

"Well, try me anyway." He was determined this wasn't going to put a cloud over the trip or the relationship in general; Sherlock needed to talk about it. "Come on. Tell me."

"There isn't much to tell." He began, "As you must know, I do bore easily..."

_Ok, definitely drugs then..._ John thought, sighing inwardly.

"...and before you came along, I had a lot less to keep my mind occupied. I did some rather silly things sometimes while trying to alleviate the boredom and it eventually came to Lestrade's attention." He grimaced, obviously remembering the confrontation they'd had over it. "He basically told me that he was breaking enough rules consulting with me as it was; he wasn't going to have me around a crime scene if I was doing anything properly illegal at the same time."

John noted how Sherlock had skirted around the exact details of the things he'd done but decided not to press the issue. Though he couldn't help feeling that Lestrade's side of the story would involve more concern for Sherlock's wellbeing than the fact that the drugs were illegal; he seemed to be the closest thing Sherlock had had to a friend before John came along.

Sherlock, unnerved by the continuing silence, felt compelled to ask:

"Does that... bother you?"

"Not as such." He started, "I mean, I certainly don't much like the idea of you destroying yourself with all that stuff, but... well, we all did silly things when we were younger. You're clean now, and you're staying clean, and that's what I care about. Though I do find it odd that Lestrade got so touchy about alcohol of all things..."

To his surprise, Sherlock relaxed and broke into a grin that was only mildly self-deprecating. "Well, that's actually a separate issue. I had a few too many and rather embarrassed us both on our last plane journey..."

"Oh really?" John raised an eyebrow.

He was intrigued and oddly tempted to see what Sherlock would get up to while drunk, but rejected the idea as soon as it had crossed his mind. For one thing, he'd never seen him drink before and didn't know what his tolerance for it was; the last thing he wanted was for him to end up being sick on the plane or to have to carry him to the hotel. He also suspected Lestrade would never forgive him for it.

"Yes, if I flew at all, I tended not to fly fully in my right mind. In fact, it was the only occasion I resorted to alcohol. I used it to dull my mind. I just happened to go _slightly_ over-board on that particular occasion." He was employing that very particular smile that applies to drunken incidents which only become funny years after they actually happen.

Lestrade suddenly appeared behind him.

"Overboard is an understatement... You threw up on me! Half way over the Atlantic Ocean, while I had no change of clothes on me. We were two rows down from the bloody bathroom!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes; they were obviously rehashing an old argument. "I did apologise you know. Several times in fact. It isn't my fault that the pilot couldn't fly the plane properly."

The atmosphere lightened considerably after that and they continued to bicker like an old married couple right up until they boarded the plane. John had never travelled in first class before and was surprised by how much more spacious it was. The seats were large, had a decent amount of leg-room, were surprisingly comfortable looking and in pairs, rather than the cramped rows of four he was used to. Even though well over half of the seats were filled, it didn't look at all crowded or claustrophobic. Despite Sherlock's annoyance over it, he found he was rather glad Mycroft had found out. Though he was curious as to how exactly he'd managed it.

They filed in, showed their tickets to the flight attendants and sat down; John on the aisle, Sherlock by the window and Lestrade with a pair of seats to himself in front of them. At this point Sherlock lapsed into an agitated silence with his eyes registering the locations of all the exits. He seemed to be humming with nervous energy and hovering a few inches above his actual seat. Lestrade sighed, picking up a magazine, looking away and seeming resigned to the situation, but John found the effect was getting unsettling. He eventually got sick of it, put his hands on Sherlock's shoulders and forcibly placed the detective in his seat.

"Sherlock, for God's sake sit still. What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing." The answer came far too quickly for it to be true. "Nothing at all. I'm Excited... For Cardiff..."

Lestrade, already wearing a large pair of headphones, shot him a 'Just leave it. _Seriously_, just leave it' look over his shoulder, which he resented but chose to listen to for the time being.

"Fine, just... just sit still. You're really unnerving me..." He slumped back in his seat with his arms crossed; silently fuming over the fact that Lestrade suddenly seemed to know all these facts about his boyfriend while he was having to guess everything.

After a few minutes the lack of conversation was starting to get to him. Or rather, the fact that it was getting to him was starting to get to him. Normally he and Sherlock were perfectly able to relax into a companionable silence, just enjoying each other's company and going about their business, but the tension radiating from the man next to him made that impossible. When the plane started heading down the runway and picking up speed he was momentarily relieved to be moving, but this only lasted until he noticed the movement of his seat wasn't entirely cause by the plane.

"Ok, dammit Sherlock, that's it; you're actually vibrating the seat at this point. What the hell is wrong with you today?" He demanded furiously, determined to get to the bottom of this.

He regretted asking it quite so harshly when he turned and realised the state the man beside him was in. Somehow, somewhere between the time they'd left the taxi and the time they'd boarded the plane, Sherlock had lost all of his normal composure and turned into a complete nervous wreck. He was shaking more and more violently as the plane accelerated and lifted into the air, his breathing ragged, his eyes wild and his hands gripping the seat so fiercely that they were probably going to leave permanent dents.

"Jesus, Sherlock." He sucked in a breath through his teeth and placed what he hoped was a comforting arm on Sherlock's shoulder, "For God's sake, calm down. What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Is. Wrong." He ground out, gritting his teeth and glaring at John, clearly irritated that he was seeing him in this state "I'm _perfectly calm."_

"Nothing's wrong? Look at yourself! You-" He halted mid-sentence, his mind connecting the dots and sudden realisation dawning on him.

"Sherlock...?" He knitted his brow, baffled that all of this could be cause by something so simple, but seeing no other reason for it. "You wouldn't, by any chance, be afraid of flying would you?"

Judging by the way Sherlock was now studiously avoiding his gaze, he was right.

"Of course not." He stated furiously "That's preposterous. Why on earth would I be afraid of such a silly thing?"

John rolled his eyes.

"You know, that would be a _lot _more convincing if you weren't about to snap that seat in half..."

Sherlock's nostrils flared and he shot John a glare that would have been much more intimidating under normal circumstances, but lacked the force that was usually behind it.

"Come on. Seriously, talk to me, you'll feel better. Why flying of all things?"

This time Sherlock managed to inject some measure of venom into his glare.

"I've told you. I'm. Not. Afraid. Of. Flying." His tone indicated that it would be of benefit to John's health to drop the subject and to drop it quickly.

The look John countered with was one that clearly said 'You don't scare me Sherlock, I can see right through you. Stop being an idiot'.

"Actually you only said there was nothing wrong with you. You mentioned nothing about flying... And you're normally quite a good liar." He cocked an eyebrow "Under a bit of stress are we?"

Despite all outward appearances of being light and playful, John was anything but. He just knew that at this point it was probably the only way of getting Sherlock to admit there was a problem without causing him to snap. If things were up to him they'd be back in bed. He'd at least be cuddling Sherlock or holding his hand to reassure him. John knew all too well how tactile Sherlock could be in private, but this was new to both of them and he was still figuring out what rules applied in public.

_Stupid bloody boundaries... I don't even know if they exist or not. Why didn't I ask for a definite answer to that while I had the chance?_

"I'm perfectly fine. You're imagining things." He flinched as the plane went through an air pocket, completely ruining his already unconvincing lie.

"You could have told me you know. Did you honestly think I wouldn't notice you having a breakdown in the seat next to me? I may not be as observant as you but for God's sake, give me _some_ credit."

Sherlock bit his bottom lip ashamedly.

"It's completely stupid and infantile to be afraid of flying..." That seemed to be the closest thing to a confession that was forthcoming.

John sighed deeply.

"No. No, it isn't Sherlock. What's stupid and infantile is insisting nothing's wrong when you're clearly going out of your mind. _Especially_ while somebody who cares about you is going out of _their_ mind worrying and trying to find a way to help."

Sherlock cast his eyes down at the ground, suddenly realising that he wasn't the only one being affected by this anymore, then looked up at John, eyes wide and round, looking incredibly young and reminiscent of the frightened little boy he must once have been.

"Not that I am, but... If... If someone did happen to be afraid of flying, what might somebody do to help? And... if someone else happened to be 'going out of their mind' with worry, how might somebody help them in return?" His voice was very small.

He was tempted to roll his eyes. Sherlock normally wasn't so ridiculously transparent; the situation must really be taking it out of him. John was just glad he'd gotten through to him though, and surprisingly touched that Sherlock cared enough that, stressed out as he was, he wanted to ease John's worries.

As this exchange was taking place, they'd been unconsciously moving in closer, and their faces were now mere inches apart.

_Fuck it. Boundaries be damned._

He moved one hand up to cup Sherlock's cheek and the other to grab the hand nearest to him and release the death-grip it had on the seat. After a moment of tension, he was glad to feel Sherlock relaxing slightly into the contact and squeezing his hand in return.

"Well, if someone wanted to stop worrying the hell out of their boyfriend, they'd only have to stop being silly and agree to let him help."

Sherlock shot him an un-amused glare, coming back to himself a bit, but didn't say anything.

"And... well... To be honest, I'm not really sure how I plan to help, but I'm not letting you do this alone. I suppose you could start by telling me why you're perfectly happy leaping across roof-tops yet you're afraid of planes."

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his seat, biting his bottom lip. He looked off to the left and in a small and petulant voice he announced:

"They don't make any sense."

This brought John up short. He had been ready to regurgitate all the things he'd heard over the years about planes being statistically safer than cars and how the auto-pilot was so well programmed that the plane pretty much flies itself. He had nothing that seemed like a suitable reply to that though.

"I... I'm sorry? What? They don't _make sense_?"

"You heard me perfectly well." He said stubbornly, "They don't make sense. I can't understand them. They shouldn't work. Nobody seems to know the exact reason why they work."

John's eyebrows shot up into his hairline.

"But... What happened to all that 'if we went round and round the garden like a teddy bear it wouldn't make any difference' stuff? I mean, you don't know how the solar system works but you're perfectly happy to sit still in it without putting dents in the furniture. Why pick on planes?"

John was baffled, but happy they were at least getting somewhere. Especially since Sherlock seemed to have gotten into the spirit of the argument so much that it was nearly making him forget where he was.

"Because," He started, as if explaining how something very simple worked to an idiot, "_I_ may not know how the solar system works, but _somebody_ does. I may not have the information in my head, but somebody has catalogued it and explained it in theirs. If I ever needed any sort of reassurance of it, I could easily look it up."

That was quite possibly the silliest thing John had ever heard, but it made a strange sort of sense. Sherlock, a man who catalogued things and figured out how they worked, who made sense of everything through the science of deduction, who made it his life's work, needed to know that every fact in the universe had at least one person keeping track of it; needed to be able to access the information if he required it.

"But... they do know how planes work, or they couldn't have built any... It's differences in air pressure or something..." John tried his best to keep the question mark out of his tone as he realised he actually wasn't entirely sure of the facts himself.

"Exactly. Every explanation I've ever been offered has been as vague as that." Sherlock announced in frustration "It's always been 'differences in air pressure, _or something_', 'it's the shape of the wings, _or something_'..."

He made an expansive gesture with his free hand, getting carried away in spite of himself, and then continued.

"They never specify! The sentence always trails off before a concrete reason is given. For some reason that nobody will tell me, something that's only being propelled forward suddenly manages to leave the ground and fly upwards. It seems like some closely guarded secret." He was getting genuinely angry now, as if this lack of explanation personally offended him "It's as if they're defying the laws of physics and are afraid that somebody will catch on."

Shaking ever so slightly with the effort of containing his silent laughter by this point, John could take no more. He slumped forward, keeping a hold of Sherlock's hand, but with his other hand latching onto Sherlock's shoulder for support, and dissolved into and uncontrollable fit of giggles.

"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. But that. Is. The most. Ridiculous thing. I've ever. Heard!" He managed to drag in a breath before continuing "You, you actually think... You think the plane will go down, if you think too hard about the fact that you don't know how it works? I mean, you have to know that's not true don't you?"

He felt compelled to add that Sherlock seemed to ignore and defy physics in a similar manner himself a lot of the time, especially on roof-tops, and that it never seemed to bother him then, but thought it best to keep it to himself.

He regretted his ill-advised outburst when Sherlock snatched himself back from John's hands, turned resolutely away from him and crossed his arms, obviously sulking.

"Of course I know it isn't. I'm not an imbecile."

John's tone softened, all the laughter gone now.

"Then why...?"

Sherlock spoke quickly and in a low voice, still facing away from him.

"It's stupid and completely irrational. The rational parts of my mind know full well that whether the exact details of how it works are known or not, it isn't relevant to the fact that it does, in fact, work. They also know that it's statistically safer than driving or even walking down the street and that I take far greater risks every day than I do while sitting in one of these things."

His mouth twisted unpleasantly, as if he was not only highly disappointed in himself, but furious at John for making him admit to it, then he continued.

"The problem is that for some reason I can't convince myself of any of those facts once I actually find myself on a plane. The instant the doors close I feel trapped and fenced in. I can't stop myself shaking or jumping at the smallest provocation. It's incredibly frustrating and perfectly ridiculous. I turn into a scared house-wife with a mouse in her kitchen..."

Valiantly keeping a straight face, John pushed the image of Sherlock jumping up on a kitchen chair, wearing a dress and apron, and shrieking about mice from his mind. Promising himself he'd revisit it later, when Sherlock was in a fit state to deal with being laughed at, John placed his hands back in their previous positions, pulling Sherlock back around to face him. He was rewarded for his restraint by the fact that Sherlock smiled shyly and didn't pull away.

"Well if it makes you feel any better-"

"I severely doubt that it will." Sherlock interjected silkily.

"_If it makes you feel any better_," John ground out, making another attempt at it, "an irrational fear of flying is a pretty common thing. You're not the only one."

"Ah. I was right, it didn't." Sherlock sighed, as if lamenting the burden of his own genius.

"What I'm _trying_ to say," John continued, still trying to find the right words to help and fighting the sudden urge to slap Sherlock, "is that it's only human to have some fears that are completely illogical."

"Like your fear of bees."

"Yes, like my fear of-" He stopped mid-sentence.

"Hang on a tick. How did you know I hate bees?" He demanded.

"Your reaction to the one in the flat the other day, of course. You refused to take your eyes off it until I'd let it out the window."

"Ah, right... Well, umm... like I was saying, everyone has an irrational fear of something or other. All part of the human experience."

"Bah. Human." Sherlock let out a derisive snort "Boring. Useless. Annoying. Overrated."

John sighed, wishing he could bring Sherlock back to the version of himself that he had been earlier that morning. Happy, relaxed and post-coital...

_Oh..._

John smirked dangerously at him, an idea suddenly occurring. He drifted his hand from Sherlock's face, tracing the line of his neck, across his chest, down his stomach and further down until Sherlock gasped and his eyes widened.

"If I recall correctly Mr Holmes..." he murmured.

Sherlock let out a small whimper at being addressed as 'Mr Holmes'.

"...there were some aspects of the human experience that you didn't find boring, useless, annoying or overrated in the _slightest_ this morning." He drove his point home by curling his fingers around Sherlock's crotch and leaning his face in closer.

He could feel Sherlock's response under his fingers, and saw him moving to close the already small gap between them. That was, of course, until they hit another air pocket and he jerked away as if he'd been burned, suddenly sitting ramrod straight in his seat, eyes glued to the 'fasten seat belts' sign ahead of him and squeezing John's hand as if his life depended on it.

He drew in a shaky breath and pleaded "Please, just... Please not here John. Not now. I can't..."

_God dammit... That was working. He was relaxing before he remembered where he was. Fucking turbulence, I thought I'd figured out how to help..._

"Hey, hey, don't worry about it." He soothed "Sorry, I shouldn't have pushed you."

He placed his hand back down at his side and mentally chastised himself. The last thing he had meant to do was add sexual frustration onto Sherlock's list of problems at the moment.

"No, no... was fine. I was enjoying it until..." He trailed off, obviously ruing his new-found frustration as well. "Just... Just... At the hotel... Not... here..."

John was getting badly worried about the fact that Sherlock's ability to form a coherent sentence seemed to have deserted him. He slumped slightly into his seat.

"Am I being any help at all? I get the feeling that I'm just making it worse."

Before Sherlock could answer, the plane hit another patch of turbulence. This time it wasn't a slight rumble or dip in the otherwise smooth motion of the plane, but severe enough to rattle John's teeth and to warrant the pilot dimming the cabin lights while making an announcement telling them to securely fasten their seatbelts and take note of the nearest emergency exits.

John gasped, not from the shaking of the plane but because without realising it, Sherlock was now gripping his hand with nearly enough force to break it. It was his left hand and in light of the circumstances he decided that Sherlock needed it a hell of a lot more than he did. His more pressing concern though, was that from years of medical and military experience he knew that sort of grip far too well. It was like a death grip; desperate, unnaturally strong and gave him a horrible sinking feeling in his stomach.

_Oh fuck..._

His fears were confirmed when he turned and saw that the awful state Sherlock had now worked himself up into had now crossed the border between severe nerves and a full-fledged panic attack. He was squirming in his seat, looking like a rabbit caught in the headlights, pupils dilated and looking frantically in every direction with his eyes unfocused, looking for an escape, though not seeming to actually see anything. He was biting his lip, leaving dents, there was such tension in his muscles that John wouldn't have been overly surprised to hear tendons snapping and his breaths were coming in erratic, too-short bursts. He looked as if he was about to either faint, go completely mad or be violently sick. Maybe a bit of all three.

The sight of it alone nearly sent John mad himself. Instead he took a more active grip of Sherlock's hand, ignoring the screams of protest from his own hand, and firmly grabbed the other man's shoulder with his free one, keeping him as steady as he could. He forced his voice into his practiced doctor's tone – calm yet firm – reminded himself that nobody had ever died of a panic attack and tried to pretend that he wasn't frightened out of his mind in spite of that. He knew it was important not to lose his head or he'd just make things worse.

"Shit. Sherlock. Sherlock, calm down. Come on. It'll be ok. This sort of thing happens all the time. It'll be over soon and we'll land and everything will be ok. Just please calm down. Deep breaths. Come on."

It sounded weak and scared, even to his ears, and he had to shout slightly to overcome the noise of the plane, which definitely wasn't conducive to inspiring calm, but it was the best thing he could manage to come up with. Lestrade's voice drifted over to him from the seat in front.

"Shit, is he alright?"

He knew it was of no help to Sherlock to get angry. He knew there was no point to it. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the quiet and rational part, he knew that after the last incident and what were probably some similar ones before it that Lestrade putting on headphones and ignoring Sherlock for the entire flight was probably somewhat justified. He knew that he shouldn't feel resentment towards the sudden, only slightly stupid, show of concern but damn it, he did, and he had been close to breaking point already. He twisted around.

"DOES HE _LOOK_ ALRIGHT TO YOU?"

He turned back to Sherlock without waiting for a response, taking deep, frustrated breaths, already regretting the outburst. Partially because of the look it had put on Lestrade's face, but mostly because while trying to calm somebody down, it wasn't the world's greatest idea to start shouting and panicking yourself.

_Dammit, man, you're a doctor, you should know better... Whatever happened to working well under pressure?_

Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on how you look at it, Sherlock was far too gone already for it to have had much of an effect on him.

"Hey, hey, Sherlock. Look at me." Sherlock's eyes continued to dart around in search of some sort of escape. John grabbed the side of his face and pointed it directly towards him. "Seriously Sherlock, look at me. _Look _at me!"

Sherlock's eyes finally fixed themselves onto his and he let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding.

"Ok good. Now keep looking at me and try to calm down. Take deep breaths." Sherlock's eyes continued to stare into his, though they looked as if they were itching to resume their previous motion. His breathing, however, stayed as erratic and uneven as before, coming in short gasps that shook his shoulders rather than expanding his chest as they should have.

"Come on Sherlock. Breathe in and out. In and out. Deep, even breaths. _Please_ try to do that for me."

To his immense relief, after a few seconds Sherlock took a long shaky breath in and blew it straight out again. He followed it with a few more panicked gasps, but eventually managed to bring it into a somewhat steady rhythm. It looked as if it was taking an immense effort, and the breaths weren't quite as even as John would have liked, but he was doing it. John collapsed sideways into his seat in relief, still maintaining eye-contact and his hold on Sherlock. He'd been sure they were in trouble for a minute there.

"Good. That's good, Sherlock. Keep doing that."

He moved his hand down to Sherlock's arm, rubbing it up and down in a comforting gesture, and just sat there, staring into his eyes, monitoring his breathing and muttering meaningless platitudes and reassurances to him for several minutes. Gradually the motion of the plane calmed down, the cabin lights were turned back on (though the 'fasten seat belts' sign was never turned off) and it was announced that they'd be landing in twenty minutes. From the collective sigh of relief that sounded from all around him, it was obvious that while Sherlock had had the worst reaction to the situation, he definitely hadn't been the only one to panic.

Lestrade, sensing that now that Sherlock was doing better John would be somewhat calmer, tried his question again.

"You two alright back there?"

John replied without breaking eye-contact with Sherlock.

"Yeah. Yeah, I think so. Sorry I snapped at you."

"Don't worry about it. You were under a bit of stress. Perfectly understandable." He cast a concerned sidelong glance in Sherlock's direction. "Umm... Is he going to make it to Cardiff in one piece?"

"I... am sitting. Right. Here. I-I'm not deaf, you know..." Sherlock managed to bite out, in what was a weak shade of his normal cutting tone, not quite able to look away from John long enough to deliver his line.

_Oh no..._

John had been sure Sherlock was doing quite well, all things considered, but judging by the state of his speech patterns and the fact that he was still shaking, he was worse off than he was letting on.

John glanced at the seat in front of him to see a worried expression that mirrored his own.

"Don't worry. We're fine back here." He hoped Lestrade could take the hint.

Thankfully he caught on quickly enough and turned around with only one more concerned glance in Sherlock's direction.

In an undertone John asked "How are you doing? Really, how are you doing?"

When he got no response, he lightly added "Scale of one to ten?"

It got him a tense smile, but nothing more. Sherlock seemed to have realised his speech patterns were giving him away.

John looked down at the arm-rest that was dividing them, and as he had suspected, it could be folded up so that the two seats merged into one. He did this while Sherlock gave him a nervous, quizzical look, and then pulled Sherlock closer to him in an awkward cuddle. It was uncomfortable at the beginning due to the fact that Sherlock was stiff as a board, but it seemed to have the desired effect as he relaxed slightly into the embrace and gradually stopped shaking. John stroked his hair absently, wishing the rest of the tension would leave his muscles and he'd ease up the vice-like grip on John's hand, but he was just glad of what little progress he had made.

"Thank you... I'm... really, _really_ sorry about all of this." Sherlock whispered in a tiny, thoroughly embarrassed voice.

"Hey..." John murmured, still running his free hand through Sherlock's hair "Don't worry about it. You're on bee-killing duty for the rest of your life though, since it turns out you know about that."

He felt a chuckle shaking the top half of Sherlock's body slightly. Not quite his usual one, but definitely an improvement.

"I think that can be arranged."

They sat like that for the remainder of the plane journey and Sherlock kept up his vice-like grip on John's hand until they had descended the metal steps, touched their feet back down on solid ground and entered the terminal, leaving the planes completely out of sight. The effect was instantaneous. Sherlock relaxed his grip, though didn't part their hands, flopped down in the nearest available seat with his head thrown back, and seemed to melt into a shaky human puddle where he sat, not caring anymore who saw.

"Never... Again..." He breathed heavily, trying to regain his composure. "Dear God... Never. Again."

John, sensing the storm had passed, took the opportunity to assess the damage to his hand. Hoping Sherlock was too out of it to notice, he experimentally flexed his fingers. Surprisingly, his hand had fared pretty well. Definitely not broken or fractured, probably a bit bruised but he could live with that.

Lestrade, who was standing uncomfortably next to them feeling like a third wheel already, cleared his throat and said "Erm, look we should probably be picking up our bags..."

John was about to tell him to give Sherlock a minute but the detective leapt up from the seat, obviously recovered, dragging John with him towards the baggage claim, muttering under his breath something to the tune of "The sooner we leave this airport the better..."

Lestrade suggested that he get the bags while the two of them get some air outside, and John found himself incredibly grateful to the inspector, since Sherlock was looking distinctly in need of just that. Sherlock's idea of fresh air turned out to be slightly different to his though.

"What happened to the nicotine patches? You were doing so well..." John eyed the small pack of cigarettes and the lighter Sherlock had purchased from the newsagents in the terminal with distrust. He honestly didn't want to be the kind of overly-controlling boyfriend who insisted his partner didn't smoke, yet he was mentally going over every horrible lung cancer case he'd ever seen and doing his best not to imagine all the tar that was setting up shop in Sherlock's airways. He'd taken his hand from Sherlock's so he could work the lighter, and as a small gesture of protest wasn't going to be giving it back until he was a smoke-free zone.

"I won't be buying any more, therefore I will resume doing well when this box is empty. The patches aren't going to cut it at the moment; I need a more direct delivery system." John couldn't really argue with that; he figured in light of the circumstances, falling off the nicotine wagon was pretty understandable. This didn't stop him wincing when Sherlock punctuated his point by taking a desperate drag on the first cigarette, reducing half of it to a pile of ash in one go and exhaling a cloud of acrid smoke. He did his very best not to think about the sheer amount of the vile things Sherlock must have smoked in his day to be able to do that so effortlessly.

By the time Lestrade returned with the bags, giving the grey cloud that now surrounded the two of them a disapproving glance but choosing not to comment, Sherlock had chain-smoked his way through four of what John was trying very hard not to think of as cancer-sticks. He at least seemed to have calmed down considerably.

They clambered into a taxi, John leaning his head on Sherlock's shoulder and closing his eyes, the experience having taken more out of him than he'd thought, and headed to the hotel. His hand was back in Sherlock's again and Sherlock was surreptitiously, or so he thought anyway, checking over what damage he might have done to it while in his panicked state, wincing when he found what felt like the beginnings of bruises, but happy overall that it didn't seem badly damaged. John decided to leave him to it without commenting; he was far too content where he was.

He was so comfortable in the warm taxi, cuddled up to Sherlock, that he must have drifted off without realising, because he lurched into consciousness to find himself in the process of being lifted carefully out into the open air. It took him a moment to realise out what was happening.

"Huh, you, what, Sherlock? Sherlock! What the hell are you doing? Put me down!" He squirmed and was eventually lowered onto his feet, fuming as he heard the distinct sound of Lestrade snickering as he climbed out after them.

"I thought it best not to wake you. You're generally rather irritable when your sleep is interrupted." Sherlock stated simply, obviously unaware of how inappropriate he was being "I see I was right in assuming this, since you now are, in fact, rather irritable."

John accepted that Sherlock probably hadn't known any better and decided instead to direct his irritation towards Lestrade.

"Could you not have told him carrying me was a bad idea instead of just sitting there?" He sighed, running a hand through his hair and looking around to see who had seen. Thankfully the taxi driver was the only one in the vicinity besides Lestrade trying to contain giggles; everyone else seemed either completely oblivious to them or to at least not find it so amusing. "Or at least mentioned to him that it's not generally socially acceptable to be carrying unconscious men around in public?"

"Sorry mate, I would have said before we got inside, but you have to admit it's pretty funny. You looked fairly comfy there too." Lestrade replied, unabashed and still grinning.

John found he was smiling in spite of himself as they retrieved their bags from the boot of the taxi and headed to check in.

John definitely sensed Mycroft's hand in the choice of hotel. It was ostentatious, decorated in opulent colours, full of marble and sandstone and looked like it cost more than he got paid in a year for a room. He sent off a quick 'thank you' text and made a mental note that, no matter how Sherlock protested and insisted that his brother had ulterior motives, he would thank Mycroft properly and in person when they returned home.

The second they walked in, they made straight for the check-in desk, that was until Sherlock's eyes darted quickly around the room and he sped off towards what looked like a recently married couple standing around in the foyer. Lestrade continued on, obviously used to this sort of thing and wanting to get settled in quickly, but John hurried after Sherlock in the hopes of avoiding the inevitable scene he was about to make. He caught up to him still half way across the room from the couple and grabbed the arm of his coat firmly, bringing him to a stop.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"He's sleeping with her sister, and only a few months after their wedding too. I thought it only right to inform her." He explained as if it was patently obvious.

Sensing that Sherlock would receive disbelief from the wife and a punch on the nose from the husband for his troubles, John pulled him away, back to where Lestrade was standing, holding three card-keys, two of which he handed to them, still looking fairly amused. He led them into the lifts, up to the top floor and with a grin, an expansive gesture and the air of a magician showing off his lovely assistant, he presented them with the room Mycroft had requested for them.

"The... The honeymoon suite...?" John stood there with his mouth hanging open, not entirely sure how to feel about that. "He... Your brother booked the honeymoon suite for us..."

Sherlock seemed similarly at a loss for words. "I'm not sure if I want to thank him or kill him... I suppose I could do both..."

Lestrade clapped them both on the back informed them they had to be out and hunting criminals in two hours then, still grinning, wandered off towards the lifts to find his own room. At that moment a beep sounded from John's pocket and Sherlock rolled his eyes, signalling that now they'd both received a text from Mycroft. John dug out his phone and Sherlock evidently had decided that ignoring his brother was pointless, since he did the same.

The text that Sherlock had received that morning read:

**I do believe congratulations are in order Sherlock.**

**I'd like to say this is a surprise, but we both know it was a long time coming.**

**Mummy will be pleased you've finally found someone, you know how she worries.**

**MH.**

While John's read:

**I trust you'll make my brother happy John.**

**Enjoy the room, I picked it out specially. **

**I'll be dropping over for a chat when you return to Baker Street.**

**Do try your best to keep him out of trouble.**

**MH**

The possibility of receiving a protective brotherly warning talk suddenly seemed a lot more real, but he decided not to worry too much. Mycroft would only bear him any ill will if he hurt Sherlock, and he certainly wasn't going to be doing that if he could help it.

Almost as if sensing he was being thought about, Sherlock came up behind him placed his chin on John's shoulder and snaked his arms around his waist.

"I recommend you ignore anything and everything he might have said to you." He murmured into John's neck.

"He told me to keep you out of trouble" John replied, leaning back into the unexpected embrace.

"That, for example." Sherlock said silkily "That is exactly the sort of thing you should feel free to ignore."

"He also said for us to enjoy the room." John added mischievously, impatient to get inside.

Sherlock seemed to consider this for a moment, the urge to go against his brother warring against his desire to make the most of the two hours they had before they had to get back to work. Eventually the stronger desire won out.

"Well... I suppose even Mycroft can have a good idea every now and then..."


End file.
